Assassin
by Raquel
Summary: A girl, raised by Death Eaters, is sent to Hogwarts on a mission and finds that even in winning you can lose too. Updated at last! The pg13 rating is for my rotten dementors, but it's a maturity thing so use judgement.
1. The Assignment

**_The Jordan Quartet: Book 1_**

**_The Assassin, Part 1_**

**Written by Glitter, plot mostly by Dolphingirl with help from Glitter**

In the wreckage of the Prewett's house, he stood. His name, feared to speak for so many years, was tattooed over the wooden doorway in smoking black letters. He stood, enjoying the sight of the bodies of Gina and Marcus Prewett, sprawled in grotesque positions, one still clutching three splinters and a unicorn hair. Blood flowed freely from Gina—in places her skin had been totally peeled from her face—and the glittery white of bone was everywhere—Marcus's bones. The rest of his body lay there like a deflated balloon.

Alexander Prewett was immune to it all; he crouched beneath a smoldering pile of half-melted bricks. He was rocking back and forth, hugging the body of his younger sister, Katy, to his chest. It had been quick and painless for her, not so for him. In his heart was a tearing emptiness that nothing could ever cure.

The assistant watched this scenario through dark eyes. He knew not the Prewetts and was glad he hadn't—just watching brought sweat to his face and a queer lurch in his stomach. Doubt was heavy on his mind—he could never torture and kill people—well, maybe he could kill, as long as it was fast. Painless. Not so—messy.

Voldemort looked up, noticing two things at once. The first was a teenage boy, clutching an eight-year old girl to his chest. The second was the barest twitch of a finger from the two-year old he had presumed dead. He waved his wand, absentmindedly killing the boy, who fell to earth with a wet thud and a choking moan. His keen eye missed the shiver that ran through his hooded servant.

Using his magic as a scoop, he picked her up. She was asleep, twitching slightly in fitful dreams. He studied her. She had black hair, long eyelashes, and a determined mouth. As he stared, her eye snapped open, and she ran her brown eyes over him. There was no fear in her gaze, only anger.

He smiled. Smiled and laughed until his stomach hurt. The Death Eater beside him winced. The girl continued to glare, her eyes practically shot sparks. Voldemort smiled again. "Severus, take her." He ordered his hooded assistant. "I shall find her amusing—if not very, very useful." Just before Severus Apperated away, he heard Voldemort mummer "Her name is to be Jordan."

~

Fifteen years later, many things had changed. The child had grown, no longer a child but a young woman, strong and dangerous. Her face was no longer baby-round and smooth; a number of tiny scars were scattered around a face that was narrow and strong-boned. Although she was well-fed, there was a wasted look about her—hollow cheeks, bony wrists and arms. And of course, she was still stubborn and unafraid.

As Wormtail, her keeper, found out constantly day after day.

"Shan't."

"Shall."

"Shan't."

"You shall, or Master will hear," snapped Wormtail, waving his wand impatiently at the teenager who was bluntly refusing to use the Killing Curse on a large amount of kittens.

"I shan't. It's wrong." She shook her shaggy chin-length black hair out of her eyes. "What have they ever done to deserve such a death?"

Wormtail, unwilling to waste time finding an answer to this, shook his wand under her nose. She calmly turned it aside and pointed her own wand at him. "I'll try the curse out on you, then."

He paled. "Th-th-that's not allowed," he stuttered.

She kept her wand level with his eyes. "I couldn't care less," she said darkly, smiling. "You have until the count of three to get out of here and if I see you again for the rest of today, I shan't be so lenient." Wormtail stiffened, and she nearly laughed. "One, two—" she stopped, watching his back retreating down the hall. "THREE!" she roared, setting off an earth-shaking blast that had the house-elves scurrying for cover and Wormtail running for his life.

She laughed, then went over to the kittens. Freeing them from their body bind, she began to play with them. One, the smallest and darkest, was darting away from the others, pouncing wildly at the slightest opportunity. She smiled and picked it up; it bit her. She didn't mind—fighting shows spirit. "You're so cute!" she told him as he wrestled with her fingers. "And so quick"—he bit her again—"and so ferocious!"

"He reminds me slightly of you, Jordan."

The so-named Jordan wheeled, allowing the relief to show in her eyes when the visitor only turned out to be Lucius. "Hello, Lucius," she said evenly, dragging a loose string on her gray robes across the floor for the kitten to play with. "How's everything?"

He glanced back and forth, his pale green eyes taking in every inch of the room. "There is talk of sending you to school, possibly Durmstrangs."

Jordan's face fell. "What could they teach me?" she asked, gently flipping the kitten over and tickling its feet. "Why not Hogwarts?"

"An excellent school, Hogwarts," Lucius said, "My son, Draco, attends it." A sneer grew upon his face. "The Headmaster, however, isn't satisfactory."

Jordan raised her dark eyebrows. "Why not?"

"He believes in giving opportunity to Muggles."

"With no magical power?" she asked, her eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hair. "That's just silly."

"No…Mudbloods." His voice was heavy with contempt. "Half blood. Muggle-born." Jordan wrinkled her nose, but didn't say anything. She was busy trying to detach the black kitten's claws from the hem of her robes. Lucius frowned slightly. "What is your position on the Mudbloods?"

Jordan pursed her lips, using her wand to change the size of the kitten's ears. "I've never met any." She flicked one of the kitten's ears, which had expanded to roughly the size of a dog's. They immediately began to shrink.

"They're horribly stupid," Lucius muttered, one particular Mudblood on his mind. "Well, some are."

Lucius Malfoy. We need to talk.

Jordan flinched slightly as the cold voice echoed through the room—a reminder that the Master was everywhere. Lucius paled, then swallowed and nodded. "Yes Master, I'll be there in a moment." He Apperated away.

Jordan sighed. She liked Lucius—sometimes—because she could tell him what she thought. Master would have fits if he knew she spoke her mind; he said that withholding your feelings gave you the power of mystery. She privately thought it was a whole lot of nonsense.

She scooped us the kitten—whose ears were now only slightly too large for it's head—and paced her chamber. It would have been nice if she had been allowed to decorate it, but no. Instead she simply had stone walls and a bed, dresser, and a small bedside table. She hated it, but knew better than to ask if she could have another room. Jordan had made this suggestion once. She had spent two years in a dungeon cell.

Jordan. Upstairs.

She hesitated, knowing what was next and hating it.

Now.

There was an unspoken power behind that word that forced her to rise. She trudged out of the room, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Up the stairs, past portraits, frames, and ghosts to an abandoned landing. Unlike the rest of the underground ruin, this was clean and polished, shiny black metal and stone.

You take a long time. Hurry.

Jordan frowned and stepped into the middle of the chamber. "The Speaking Chamber!" she shouted, her voice echoing around the room. Suddenly the room began to spin, faster and faster, and just when Jordan wanted to scream from the pressure, it stopped. No longer was she surrounded by black—now she was in a room of green metal. There was only a whirling circle at one end of the room; a portal to the Masters room. 

__

Jordan. You are seventeen now. 

Jordan nodded, keeping her eyes focused slightly above the spinning circle. "Sir."

You are of age in the wizarding world. You are trained in the Dark arts, some Light Magic, and a great ability with dragons. What say you?

Jordan almost blushed. It was true, she did love dragons—their ferocity, their cunning, and their fire—and she wasn't all that shabby in magic. She supposed it was her wand—willow and phoenix, nine and a half inches—that helped, because she was frankly horrible at the Wandless magic. "I say you are too generous, Master."

Your Master is giving. Now, my Death Eaters and I wish for you to undertake a mission. As you may already know, the Headmaster of Hogwarts is Albus Dumbledore.

Jordan nodded. "Lucius and the rest of your Eaters have a great loathing for him," she said carefully. The Master tended to twist her words.

__

He was the only wizard who kept me at bay in my younger days, said the Master with some contempt. _He now runs Hogwarts._

Jordan's forehead wrinkled as she frowned. "So Albus Dumbledore's at Hogwarts. What's the point?" 

There was heavy sarcasm behind the answer. __The point, Jordan, is that you will go to this Hogwarts. You will kill Albus Dumbledore.

She swallowed. Hard. "How? And why me?"

There was a lengthy pause, broken only by hissing and spitting. __Nagini has foreseen that you will succeed in killing Dumbledore. You also are seventeen, the age of the seventh year in the school. I have taken care of the entrance tests that you are supposed to take when you enter Hogwarts. Dismissed. 

She bowed so low her shaggy hair brushed the floor. "Thank you, Master." Jordan turned and left the room, her mind anywhere but the castle. Her brown eyes were thoughtful as she wondered how she was going to kill Albus Dumbledore. The only things she was really good at were Dark Magic and magical creatures—particularly dragons.

The thought sent her down another corridor, past her room to a solid wood and steel door decorated with small figures of copper—she could see the dragon's bane worked into the metal—placed in a circle around sleeping bronze dragons. She smiled, then pushed open the door, reaching for her wand in the same movement.

The torches had been extinguished long ago, but there was really no need for them, not with the sparks that flew from the nostrils of the dragons. She held up her pale hand next to the dark scales of the Hungarian Horntail. Just one of those scales was bigger than her whole hand. Next to the Horntail lay various other types, from several Canadian Commons with glimmering brown-gold scales that were the size of a large cat to the great Antarctic Icefall that was easily the size of a brontosaurus. 

She giggled and tickled the belly of one of the Commons, who snorted tiny jets of flame and rolled over. One of the Chinese Fireballs was awake and moved towards her gracefully, it's large golden ruff flat along its neck. Humming softly under her breath, she reached out a hand to it, palm up. It sniffed, delicately, then moved closer, humming the same tune.

She sighed and stroked its ruff, though she had to stand on tiptoe to do so. She was a great deal taller than most seventeen year-old girls, but the dragon was quite tall too.

"Jordan Pre—Marvolo, get out here immediately!"

The Fireball started, snorting tiny jets of flame at the doorway. Jordan scowled at the shadow of Wormtail's fat personage shifting nervously from foot to foot outside the doorway. He didn't like dragons. Quietly she moved towards the Icefall, poking her underbelly—all that she could reach!—to wake it up. She snorted and moved her great head towards the little human child. Jordan nodded in respect as the vast blue eyes turned on her.

The dragon cocked its head questioningly, her eyes filled with sleepy annoyance.

Jordan nodded towards the door, glaring her dislike of the shadow that crossed the crack in the door, shifting back and forth. She smiled wickedly and placed a hand to her mouth, moving her fingers, then flapped her hand, shooing Wormtail away.

The snowy scales shifted as the Icefall heaved itself onto heavily clawed feet. She blew a few test sparks at the door.

Jordan nodded, her teeth glinting in an evil grin of delight.

Wormtail's shriek was audible throughout the castle, as was the roar of the Icefall as it projected blue-white flames at the door; though they did not pass the ring of copper dragon's bane they heated the hallway to unbearable levels.

The other dragons looked up as the tall girl thanked the Icefall, then dissolved into giggles. The dragons warily sniffed at her for a second, then relaxed. They were used to her.

JORDAN!

Jordan winced as a tiny chip of stone fell onto her head from the high ceiling. The yell shook the castle and startled all the dragons into fiery bursts of shock and rage. Jordan scurried out. It was one thing to be with sleeping dragons that didn't see her as an enemy. It was an entirely different matter to be with angry dragons who didn't really care if they squashed you into the ground.

She found herself back in her room facing a large trunk that was bulging with black cloth, books, and what appeared to be a broom.

"That was foolish, Jordan."

Jordan whirled, gasping when she saw the cloaked man, taller even than her height of five foot ten. "Uh-oh," she muttered, backing into her bed. At the rare times the Master had to talk to her in person, she was in big trouble. She fingered the still-puffy scar at the small of her back—a relic of the last time he had appeared in person. 

"I came to warn you," he spat, he red eyes glowing with anger, "That you shall stay out of trouble, or you shall meet the fate of my other, unfaithful servants."

Jordan shivered. Was it just her, or was the room getting colder?

He reached out a hand. She was out of room to back away, so she closed her eyes and willed herself not to screech. 

Something hit her head, once, twice, three times. Jordan winced at the sting, and the prickling pain that followed. She peeked open an eye to see what he was doing. The Master was holding what looked like a large golden spindle. In his other hand he held a plain wooden mirror, which he passed to her. She brought it up to her face, puzzled by the raps. When she saw her reflection, it dawned on her what exactly the spindle had done.

Three thin streaks of gold punctured her otherwise plain black hair. She felt them. They were just as ratty and uncombed as the rest of her hair. A hand clamping on her shoulder redirected her attention.

"That is to remind you of who you are serving." He paused. "I dare not burn you with my Mark." He glared into Jordan's eyes. "Remember who you serve, Jordan. Never forget!"

His words echoed through her head, growing more powerful by the second. By the time they faded, it was morning, and Jordan collapsed, asleep, on the bed.

~

"You're kidding."

Jordan was in a very bad mood, and being woken after three hours of sleep and made to put on less than comfortable clothing had not improved her attitude one whit. She stared at her reflection, which was wearing too-big jeans with too many pockets and a shirt that had a large '17' on the front. The sleeves barely reached past her elbows. Her sneakers had disappeared under the jeans, and no matter how much she protested, they had forced her to comb her hair and actually style it.

It was not the best morning she'd ever had.

She ripped her hair out of the ponytail, letting it fall into its usual state of disarray. Narcissa Malfoy, who had assisted with the dressing, tossed her a brown fisherman's hat. "If you won't do something about that mess, hide it!" she snapped. Jordan wasn't the only one whose patience was worn thin. 

Jordan jerked it over her eyes, picked up the black kitten—newly christened Namir—and picked up her trunk—magically lightened—and headed out the door. After walking through the portal, she stopped and glanced around. She understood instantly why she needed to put on these ridiculous clothes.

The train station was swarming with people dressed in similar style, some checking the clock, others boarding trains, some pushing carts and carrying owls. It wasn't hard to figure out which group to watch.

"—Yes Mother, I know. Blaise, go away!"

Jordan turned to see who was talking and was promptly walloped over the head by somebody's passing purse. She swore loudly and vividly, causing many mothers to glare a warning and the children to look at her in awe. She smiled. "Kids, you've learned a new word today. Use it with discretion." The mothers quickly herded their children away before they could be corrupted worse.

"Hey. You're new around here."

Jordan spun to find herself face to face with a mass of electric blue hair. Beneath it was a pair of brown eyes a shade lighter than her own, a large T-shirt, and a pair of baggy jeans. The boy that was attached to said items smiled. Jordan didn't smile back, but she answered "Yea. I'm going to Hogwarts."

"Same. I'm Matt Zabini, Seventh year, Slytherin." He stuck out his hand. Jordan stared at him unabashedly. "This is the part where you shake my hand and say who you are," he pointed out, brandishing his hand again.

Jordan gripped it. "Jordan Marvolo, seventeen, no clue what Slytherin is." She noticed that he was only an inch shorter than her.

"Slytherin is one of the four Houses of Hogwarts." When Jordan continued to look blank, he added "Y'know, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin."

"I don't get it."

Matt sighed and rubbed his temples. "You're worse than Cho." Jordan raised her eyebrows. "When you get into Hogwarts, they Sort you. With a hat. The hat looks into your brain, shuffles things around, finds everything about you, and puts you in a House."

Jordan felt something pinch in her stomach. She didn't like the idea of anything, even a hat, shuffling around her mind—who knows what it could do with the information it found.

"There are four Houses, each with—hey, are you listening?" Matt glared at her. He waited for Jordan's nod before continuing. "Okay, so each House has different traits. Gryffindors are brave, Hufflepuffs are loyal, Ravenclaws are smart, and Slytherins are evil." He smiled wickedly.

A chime clanged from the clock. Matt glanced up and paled. "Holy—" he muttered, racing over to his trunk. "We need to get to the train!"

Jordan watched him as he dashed towards an apparently solid barrier. She winced as he hit it—but then he vanished. Against her better judgment, she followed, hoping for a miracle. Shutting her eyes, she dashed at the barrier, waiting for the crash.

It never came. 

Before she knew it, she had her eyes open and was feasting on the sights before her. A large red steam engine huffed and puffed at the back of a large crowd. Her mouth fell open. She had never seen so many people at once.

Namir saved her. His wild thrashing as he escaped brought her back to Earth, and her immediate problem. What to do.

Following the lead of other students, she stored her luggage in a compartment, then found someplace to sit. Remembering Namir, she got up to search for the black kitten.

"Oh, hello, Jordan," said Matt's voice from behind her. "Missing something?" Jordan spun. He was holding a small ball of black fluff at arms length. She observed that he also bore heavy scratches on his arms. "Oh, may I introduce you to my friend Cho Chang?"

"Let me through, you big idiot," laughed a girls voice from behind him. "I can't see him."

"Her." Jordan really resented being mistaken for a guy. "I'm a girl."

A round face with sparkling almond-shaped dark eyes poked itself from behind Matt. "Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to." Cho Chang was nearly nine inches shorter than Matt, Asian, and very pretty.

Jordan seated herself and took Namir from Matt. Namir appeared none the worse for his adventure and settled himself on her lap, purring while watching them closely through slitted yellow eyes.

"Sorry 'bout that." Jordan glanced up at Cho, who was looking abashed and worried. "You aren't really mad at me, are you?"

Matt elbowed Cho, who glared at him. "Cho's conscience was inflated a bit over the last year," he explained, "And it's getting on everyone's nerves."

Jordan nodded, not really understanding. She was more interesting in figuring out exactly what their weaknesses were. It was a game she had played since she was seven and had sat in her Master's court—sizing up new arrivals to the Dark, guessing how long they would last—and had become almost automatic.

Matt, she thought, was deeply fond of Cho in a guardian kind of fashion—not lovey-dovey at all. He didn't look like he really would care about being uncomfortable if it would help, she mused, but intense pain or threatening Cho would easily bend him.

Cho, on the other hand, looked as though she would remain solid for a long time, but, Jordan thought critically, she looked more like the person who could be bent by simple things—like fright.

"Jordan? Earth to Jordan?"

She shook herself out of her trance to see Cho peering at her. "Are you okay? You sort of drifted there—like you were far away."

Matt, looking equally worried, jerked at her hat playfully. "Hey, you can leave if we're boring you. Or we can leave."

"Oh no," said Jordan quickly. She didn't like the thought of sitting here alone—the Master only appeared to hurt her when she was alone. As a distraction—to herself as well as Matt and Cho—she pulled off her hat and plopped it over Namir. 

"Cool hair," Matt remarked. "How'd you get the streaks to stay so bright when your hair is so dark?"

"Oh, my Uncle Tom bewitched them," she lied quickly.

__

Be CAREFUL. She shivered as her Master's voice crashed into her brain. She quickly thought over everything she was doing. Be careful, Jordan, she reminded herself. Play it safe and you'll live to see the sun rise.

"Jordan? Do you always drift off like this?"

Matt shook her arm. "You're starting to look like Trelawney," he informed her.

"No, she looks more like Morathia remembering her accident. She doesn't look like Trelawney because you can tell that bug-eyes is faking," Cho mused.

"Who?" asked Jordan blankly.

Matt grinned. "Trelawney. Biggest faker and second most annoying teacher in the school."

"First most annoying teacher would be Snape," said Cho, making a face. She pulled down the corners of her mouth. "Miss Chang," she said in an oily voice, "Your potion is a tad too thin. Forty-hundred points from Ravenclaw. "

"He's not that bad—" protested Matt.

"To you he's not bad because he won't take points from his own house!" said Cho, flipping her hair over her shoulder in a gesture of pure annoyance.

Jordan watched the battle for a few minutes, then got up and left. Neither Cho nor Matt noticed because Cho had just 'playfully' slapped Matt, who had retaliated by pulling her hair. Cho slapped him again—well, you get the picture.

"Hey—watch it!"

Tall as she was, Jordan still had to tilt her head back to see the top of this person's head. He was well over six feet and was crowned with bright red hair that looked as though he had been trying to grow it out, but was in that awful in-between stage. With him were a rather pretty girl with brown hair and a boy about the same height as Jordan herself. 

She started backwards, tripped over the hem of her jeans, and nearly fell through the open door of a compartment, only saving herself by catching the sides of the doorframe. The shorter boy had black hair, jewel-bright green eyes and a jagged scar running down his forehead. She recognized him from the descriptions given to her by the Master—although he didn't look like he was going to find she was a servant of the Master, she didn't want to take any chances.

Jordan elbowed her way past them hurriedly, only pausing to glance at Harry Potter once. Had she looked longer, she would have seen him wince and clap a hand to his forehead. 

~

Jordan ran down the train, found an empty compartment and slid into it, gasping for breath. She was not built for sprinting. There was a stitch that had worked its way into a spot between her ribs that practically made her double up in pain.

"Jordan."

When she started to look up, a hand descended from above and slapped her in the face. Her head snapped to the side with a bruising crack of bone. Jordan whimpered and touched the cheekbone he had struck. It was already tender and had begun to swell.

"I am disappointed in you, Jordan."

"What did I do?" she whispered. "I didn't let anything slip."

His mouth turned down at the corners, his thin eyebrows plunged like hunting hawks. "You are making very unsatisfactory friends. I had hoped you would meet _Slytherins_."

"Matt is."

"Don't get smart!" his hand descended again, bringing tears to her eyes as it hit her already sore cheek. "Matt Zabini's mother was once one of my strongest allies—but then she met that fool Mudblood Craig. She left my service to have her children—and never returned. Matt Zabini is a half-blooded wizard. The only one in Slytherin for about fifty years," he mused.

Jordan didn't look up, she didn't dare. "So who am I supposed to make friends with?"

Another blow fell, then another. "You aren't going to make friends," said Voldemort. He struck her again—and again. "Stupid—sentimental—attachments!" he hissed as the blows fell. 

The last blow shattered Jordan's cheekbone, and she fell to the floor with a sob of pain, shielding her face from his hand. Tears dropped like rain from her brown eyes, dotting her jeans with spots of darker blue. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Remember what I say, girl! This is your only chance! If they don't kill you, I will!" There was a blinding flash of light, then there was only the noise of soft sobs as Jordan nursed her face.

~

"Who was that girl, anyway?" asked Ron, ducking through the compartment door. "I've never seen her before."

"Nobody has," replied Hermione, keeping a careful eye on Harry. "Harry, are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine now," he replied, "but I'm not so sure I will be." He scowled and rubbed his scar.

"Harry, there is no way that girl—" Ron began, but at a harsh look from Hermione he stopped.

"You don't think she could be working for—for _him, _do you?" asked Hermione while busily leafing through a book entitled _Magical Maladies_. "I mean, he has been getting stronger, but according to this book she bore no signs of being under the Imperious Curse, and how else would he get some teenage girl to work for him?"

"Maybe her mother's a Death Eater," Ron suggested. 

"Maybe not."

"Do you have any better ideas?"

Harry sat up. "Shut up, will you? You're giving me a headache!"

Ron and Hermione both shut their mouths with a pained look on their faces. "Sorry."

Harry thought for a few minutes, then said "She has to have some contact with Voldemort or something like that because my scar only hurts when Voldemort's around."

Suddenly a burst of pain from his scar made him gasp and clap a hand to his head. "He's here," Harry muttered, "I just know it."

~

"One more time, Miss Marvolo. What happened, and I want the truth."

Jordan, rubbing her numb but healed jaw, scowled at Professor Snape. Dumbledore's presence was required at the feast, and only a few Professors felt like questioning a seventeen-year-old who was in a high bad temper. Snape had been elected for the job at the urging of Professors McGonnagal and Vector.

"I got into a fight with the door and it won," Jordan said sullenly. She knew she was going to catch it from the Master when she was alone—odd, she thought, that he was going to hurt her when this whole thing was his fault anyway. She chased the thought from her head and forbade it to come back. Unguarded thinking could kill her.

"I am not amused. The truth."

"Said it."

Snape, in answer to this, simply tapped his fingers on his desk for a few minutes. Jordan examined her jaw again. Finally Snape reached into a pocket in his robes and pulled out a small bottle a clear liquid. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, shaking it under her nose.

"Not yet," said Jordan calmly. She had no fear of this man. He wasn't the Master, though he was quite tall for someone who was entirely human. His height stretched three inches over her own.

"This is Verstarium, the most powerful truth Potion in the world. A few drops of this and"—he paused, letting the silence stretch—"you'll be spilling your secrets like gossip." 

Jordan tried not to shift uncomfortably. Was everyone in this school bent upon finding out her innermost secrets?

"Ah, Severus! I've just come back from the feast. Has Miss Marvolo told you anything?" Jordan twisted in her seat. An old man with long silver hair and an equally long silver beard waltzed into the room, grinning rather stupidly from ear to ear. She turned back around in time to see the tiniest of frown wrinkles quickly ironed out of Snape's face.

"No luck, Headmaster. She claims she got into a fight with a door and the door won." Headmaster? Jordan glanced at him again, sizing him up as she had Matt and Cho. Frankly—he was old. Age had ignored this man for many a year and was now freely stealing his youthful spirit away. Try as she might, she could only find Age as his weakness.

The Headmaster raised thin silver eyebrows. "Oh my. Maybe I'd better talk with her."

Jordan scowled. 'Talk' with her. Ha, that was funny. Torture her for the answer was more like it.

He sat down gracefully across from her in the chair Snape had been occupying. "So, Miss"—he glanced at the papers in front of him—"Jordan Marvolo, you entered school today with your jaw broken in three places. Do you care to tell me what happened?"

"No." Jordan squirmed under the piercing look he gave her. 

"Mr. Harry Potter came to me earlier and told me his scar has been aching—especially when you were around. Do you know why his scar hurt?"

Jordan just stared at him. She was going to be difficult.

"Mr. Potter's scar hurts when Voldemort is near. Do you have any idea why it hurt when you looked at him?"

__

Uh-oh, Jordan thought. Her mind raced, and suddenly…

Dumbledore started as Jordan began to cry. "Miss Marvolo, what happened?"

"I-I was sitting in a c-compartment with Cho and M-Matt, and I got up and l-left, and th-th-there was th-this ugly guy that looked like a snake, an-and he pulled m-me into th-the empty compartment and I th-thought he was gonna k-kill me!" She placed her head in her hands and sobbed loudly, pinching the tear gland just above her eye. To her great satisfaction more tears streamed down out of her eye, running down her cheeks, meeting at her chin, then falling with a silent splash onto her lap.

Dumbledore patted her hand. "So this man broke your jaw?"

"Y-yes," she snuffled. Drat, now her nose was running.

"Are you aware, Jordan, that this man was Voldemort?"

Jordan froze at the mention of his name. Even his servants didn't say it out loud, maybe not even in their heads. "You said his name!" she blurted, shocked at his foolish bravery.

"I find that fear of a name increases fear of the person themselves." He picked up his wand. "_Accio!_" he said calmly. For a minute Jordan froze, then relaxed as she recognized a Summoning Charm. She turned, wondering what he had Summoned.

Her answer came in the form of a hat which whizzed through the door into Dumbledore's outstretched palm. Jordan's eyes widened in silent admiration. Her Summoning Charms usually caused the object to fly towards her—and past her.

"Now Jordan, try on the Sorting Hat. We'll see which House I am to tell you to go to."

Jordan warily dropped the hat over her head. It neatly covered her eyes, causing her to only see faded black silk.

Hmmm.

Dumbledore had to steady her as she yelped and nearly fell off her chair. 

You're a tricky one, you are. You are understandably brave, ugh, I don't even want to think about how loyal you are, not Hufflepuff, you aren't exactly what Helga would have called choice material—

'Shut up' Jordan thought to the hat.

If you say so. Okay, you are smart, but you don't really pursue your intelligence, pity, you could make Rowena jealous if you worked. But then, working is not your strong suit, otherwise I would put you in Hufflepuff.

'Just tell me!' Jordan shrieked at the hat without a sound passing her lips.

__

Okay, okay, okay! No need to get touchy! Judging by your ATTITUDE I think it should be SLYTHERIN!

Jordan yanked the hat off her head and glanced at Dumbledore. "Slytherin."

"I heard," he said dryly. "The Sorting Hat shouted it loud enough to knock a portrait off the wall." He gestured at a large, gold-framed portrait, then waved his wand, elevating it above the ground. Dumbledore stared at it for a moment. 

Jordan gasped in awe. The portrait was beautiful, but it was not the people in it who made it so. There was just this unexplainable beauty of the background, the positioning, the colors—bright, delicately tinted so that it was simply—perfect.

"The founders of Hogwarts," Dumbledore explained, hanging it back on the wall.

She nodded. The two women in the picture were sitting with a man standing behind each of them. The first woman looked like the ideal mother—kind, sweet, and with loads of curly blond hair, dimples, and large hazel eyes. The man above her had a brilliantly ruddy hair and beard and spicy green eyes. 

The next two were a shocking contrast to the others. The woman's hair was jet black, straight, and fell down over her shoulders, covering the sleeves of her dark blue gown. Her eyes were large and blue, her skin unblemished. The man behind her seemed to sink into the shadows cast upon them by the other two… his eyes were as dark as railroad tunnels, his hair sleek and just as black. Jordan squinted at the background behind them—she could swear she saw somebody else back there—a tall, thin woman with long auburn hair that was braided into hundreds of tiny braids—

Dumbledore shook Jordan gently. "My dear, you're drifting."

She scowled at him and glanced back at the portrait. The woman in the background had disappeared. "Is there—" she began, then thought better of it and sighed "Never mind."

The Headmaster still appeared slightly puzzled, but didn't question her. "Severus, come in and escort your new student to her dormitory."

The door opened and the man who had first questioned her stepped in. He was shivering and had the hood on his robes up—Jordan could see why as cold air rushed in his wake. "The heating spells are down, Dumbledore," he said. "I mean, they've practically reversed—it's freezing out here!"

"Do you know what happened?" asked Dumbledore, conjuring fur-lined robes out of thin air and shrugging them on.

"Not yet, but—" He broke off as he realized Jordan was staring unabashedly at him, her pale complexion gone chalk-white. She looked almost like a corpse, standing there with her hollow cheeks and sunken, dazed eyes; raised from death only to find her puppet strings had been cut. 

"You—you…" her voice trailed off as she shook herself out of her trance. The picture they had made struck a chord in her distant memory. The tall, hooded man next to a taller, older man… "Where do I sleep?"

"You don't want to eat?" asked Snape, raising his eyebrows and looking her up and down. 

Jordan gazed at him. "No," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm not hungry." 

End of Part One


	2. The Distractions Along the Road

**The Jordan Quartet: Book 1**

**The Assassin, Part 2**

Written by GLitter, plot by Dolphingirl with help from Glitter

"Slytherin. Why am I not surprised?" said Ron sarcastically into the Gryffindor fire. 

"You were," said Hermione pointedly. 

Harry frowned. "This is getting weird," he muttered. 

"_No_, it's not weird that all of a sudden this new seventh-year girl gets her jaw broke by 'Lord Voldemort', gets put into Slytherin, and makes your scar hurt when she looks at you!" Hermione snapped. "_Honestly_, Harry, use your brain."

Ron glared at Hermione, who glared back. Harry sighed and fell back in his fireside armchair, massaging his temples. "I just wish I knew who she was!" he blurted.

"Assuming you mean Jordan, right?" Parvati said. She had apparently heard Harry and stopped.

"We were talking about the new girl, Parvati," corrected Ron. "_Girl_."

"That's her name," Parvati sniffed. "It's Jordan Marvolo."

"Marvolo?" Harry asked, staring into the fire.

"What's she like?" asked Hermione. She knew that with a little urging, Parvati would spill everything she knew. Parvati loved gossip.

"Oh, Padma says she's simply beastly! I mean, she has this rotten little cat that has scratched up three people and she's just as mean as her cat!" gushed Parvati. "But the weirdest thing about her is her hair—black, like yours, Harry, but with golden streaks in it! Padma swears you can _feel _how mean she is when she walks past you!"

Ron rolled his eyes and was about to make a snide remark when Hermione elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Thank you Parvati. Has she made any friends yet?"

"I dunno," said Parvati, happy at this new bit of information to dig up. "I'll ask Padma!"

Harry shook his head and gazed into the fire. "Marvolo," he mused, "Jordan Marvolo." Why did something about that name sound familiar?

~

Jordan tossed and turned in her bed. She couldn't sleep, had had nothing to eat all day, and it was fiercely hot. The heating spells had come back unexpectedly, and combined with the attempts to reestablish the spells—well, to make a long story short, it was around ninety degrees in the coolest spots—and Slytherin Tower was not one of the coolest spots.

"You can't sleep either, eh?"

She glanced at the curtains to her left, then parted them. On the next bed was a petite girl who was fanning herself with what looked like the torn-out title page of the book in front of her. The first thing that Jordan noticed about her, however, was that she was completely bald. Other than that she had large hazel eyes, creamy skin, and was reading a book called _Romeo and Juliet_.

"I'm Evelia Peterson, call me Elia; you would be Jordan, eh?" Elia said, looking her up and down. Noting Jordan's stare, she added "You think I shave my head, hmm?" She grinned, showing white teeth. "The reason I'm bald is because I have alopecia." 

"What's alopecia?" Jordan asked. Other than being bald, Elia was very pretty.

"My body has convinced itself that it is allergic to my hair, so it all falls out. Normally I wear a bandanna, but, eh, it's too blinking hot now." 

"Shut up, Scrambled Egghead," muttered the girl on Elia's other side. "We are trying to sleep."

"We are trying to sleep, eh Aubrey?" said Elia, rolling her eyes at the mass of brown curls on the other bed. "There is no _we_. Just you. Jordan is awake."

"Why aren't there more girls?" Jordan asked curiously. "I'd think there would be at least four."

"Eh, there would be," said Elia, shaking her head, "but we got a small crop of Slytherin girls in this year. There are at least eight boys in our year." Leaning closer, she added in a whisper, "Most are cute, so that is not really a loss, eh?"

Jordan smiled. "No, I don't suppose it is."

Aubrey moaned and rolled over, shielding her eyes from Elia's lamp. "Could you can it, Scrambled Egghead? I have classes in the morning, and so do you."

Elia sighed. "O Mistress of the obvious, let me dim the lights and, as you so quaintly put it, I shall 'can it'."

Jordan smiled. Elia was a real personality, and—funny as it seemed—she found she actually liked her. As the lights dimmed, something dawned at the back of her mind—if the Master found out she was friends with Elia, then the bald girl was pretty much doomed. She did not sleep well.

~

"Rise and shine, O beautiful dreamer!"

Opening her eyelids took all her effort, but when she opened them she found herself staring into a large pair of hazel eyes. She yelped, backed away, and hit her head on the headboard of her bed with a resounding _crack_.

"Ouch! Go away!"

Elia looked as though she went through this treatment often. "I will not go away, I must wake you up so you can go to class."

Jordan slumped back down. "Five more minutes."

"Five, eh? Are you sure it will not become six? Okay then, I will wake Aubrey." Elia crept off towards the other bed and plopped down on her victim's feet and began tickling them. Aubrey snorted loudly, turned over, and resumed snoring even more resounding than before. Elia didn't let up, instead she began to snore even nosier than Aubrey.

"Rise and shine!" she yelled into Aubrey's ear. Amazingly her victim only turned over and mumbled "G'way."

Elia shook her head sadly. "I'm done being nice, Aubrey." The bald girl shoved her victim roughly off the bed, watched her thrash for awhile, and then turned to Jordan, who was enjoying the show. "Eh, your five is done. Up!"

Jordan scrambled out of bed, not eager to receive Elia's wrath. Rummaging in her trunk she found robes, books, and a supply of hats. Rolling her eyes, she pulled out a note from Narcissa Malfoy which read:

Jordan:

Do us all a favor and wear a hat.

Narcissa Malfoy

The dark haired girl rolled her eyes again. That would be just like Narcissa, nitpicky woman she was. Following instruction, she jerked an olive-color hat over her eyes, then rummaged around until she found robes. Jerking them over her head without tearing them was quite a feat—they easily could have fitted her when she was nine and only five feet tall. When she had struggled into them, she glanced in the mirror. The hem was level with her knees. The sleeves went up to her elbows, cutting off the circulation to her hands.

Elia snorted behind her. "Your mother give you your sister's robes, eh?"

Jordan scowled at her reflection, then tried to peel off the robes. It was about as easy as peeling off her skin. Aubrey, drowsy-eyed and yawning, handed her a piece of metal. Jordan stared at it quizzically. It had two cut out circles on one end and two sharpened blades on the other, and she had absolutely no clue what it was for. "What is it?"

"Scissors," said Aubrey in a sleepy tone that was laced with annoyance. "You're going to have to cut them off."

Jordan blushed in irritation. She sincerely hoped that _somebody_ had thought to put in robes that were in her size. Turning so Audrey could cut, she rummaged through her trunk. One by one she held the robes up to her. Too small. Too small. So small it wasn't even funny. Too—wait a second.

With hope she held up a large black mass of fabric and held it up to her. It easily reached to the ground—and had a good foot of fabric left over. She sighed, then turned to Aubrey, who had succeeded in cutting the back of the tiny robes off and was now creating slits in the sleeves so it could be stripped off Jordan completely. "Can I use the skizers?"

"Not yet," muttered Aubrey as she peeled the last of the black fabric of her rear. "Okay, here." She shoved the scissors at Jordan, then shoved the pathetic pile of rags under a bed. Jordan yanked the bigger robe over her head, feeling very relieved when it fell past her feet. 

She handed the scissors back. "I decided I'll just leave it like this. Just to be safe." Boy, Narcissa Malfoy was going to get an earful when she saw her again. How could she possibly have mistaken Jordan's height?

The answer came when Jordan came downstairs for breakfast. A snooty looking, pale boy sitting at the Slytherin table was wearing robes that had obviously been hacked off at the bottom and sleeves. After peering at his face, she understood. This must be Lucius Malfoy's son. Narcissa had obviously switched their robes. 

Elia dragged Jordan to the end of the table closest to the center of the room, than plopped down in an empty chair. Jordan sat next to her, gazing up in awe. The ceiling was beautiful—or was there a ceiling at all? It was a clear sky blue, tinted with pink and a few wispy clouds. "Enchanted," Elia said. "Rowena Ravenclaw herself did it almost a thousand years ago."

Jordan whistled, impressed. "And it's lasted this whole time?"

"Yea," said Aubrey as she slumped down next to Jordan. "Well, it needed touching up once when Gryffindor almost tore it down." Elia frowned and busied herself by tying a dark green scarf around her head. "I think he was drunk," mused Aubrey, helping herself to a piece of toast.

Jordan glanced at the table. Just about every breakfast food in England was in front of her, from toast to cereal. Unsure of what to start with, she helped herself to two fried eggs and some bacon. She rearranged them with her fork, putting the two eggs on the top and the bacon on the bottom.

The eggs blinked. Jordan gasped and fought the urge to push herself away from the table. Glancing to her right to see if Elia had noticed anything, she saw her friend frozen in the act of tying a scarf around her head. To her left she saw Aubrey with her teeth halfway into an apple. Everyone else was also frozen in similar positions, not only the Slytherin table, but the whole hall. Except for the movement on her plate, nothing stirred.

The eggs blinked again, then the bacon opened and closed. Finally a voice rose from her plate. 

Jordan, you have taken this time leisurely. Be sure you will be punished for this. Get moving! Your time is short!

With one last blink, the eggs stilled, the bacon ceased to move as the hall slowly sprang into life around her. Jordan pushed back her chair and tore away from the hall. Halfway along a stone corridor she realized she had absolutely no clue where she was going. Slowly she turned, hoping she would recognize where she was; the only things in the hall were a covered portrait and a dusty old suit of armor that could have been anywhere. 

"Jordan."

She didn't turn to face him, which was just as well. His blow caught her in-between her shoulder blades, sending her flying into the suit of armor. She huddled there, waiting for another blow. It never came. Instead, the spear that the armor had been wielding crashed onto her head; the world spun around, then slowly faded into darkness.

~

Snape was on his way to Potions when he tripped over Jordan, sprawled on the floor with a large lump on her head. He muttered a few choice words under his breath, then woke her. "Miss Marvolo, what happened?" he asked.

He got the answer he expected. "Got into a fight with a suit of armor and I lost."

He rolled his eyes as though asking for heavenly strength. "You seem to be losing many fights, Miss Marvolo. You better be careful you don't lose the wrong one."

Jordan scuttled away. Odd, creepy fellow, that Snape. He obviously knew things others didn't. She shivered.

~

"Marvolo!"

Harry sat up straight in bed. He had just remembered where he had heard that name before. It was…was…

"Wassamatter Harry?" Ron asked groggily from across the room. "Bad dream?"

"No," he muttered. "I had a brainwave, now it's gone." Harry pounded his hand on his knee in frustration. He knew, just knew, just couldn't bring it into focus. It was about Voldemort, and Jordan. "Jordan," he said aloud. He could bring her to mind in a flash. Short, messy black hair, gold streaks, brown eyes with long lashes. Voldemort was less easy to bring to his mind's eye, for he had looked different nearly every time Harry saw him. Voldemort was tall. Dark hair. Red eyes. Snakelike. And, of course, he was also Tom Riddle gone bad. Tom Riddle. Tom M. Riddle.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle!" he shouted, jumping out of bed and pulling his robes over his head without bothering to take of his pajamas. "I knew it, I knew it!"

Eight sleepy eyes stared at him, murder in their gaze. He ran downstairs, slamming the door in time to hear four pillows hit it. Hermione gave him a sharp look. "Are you aware, Harry, that half of Gryffindor is going to be after your blood today?" she asked, running her eyes over his pajama legs, which were dangling from beneath his robes. 

"No, listen Hermione, I remember where I heard that Jordan person's name before!"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Where?" she asked skeptically.

"Jordan Marvolo. Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"But that could just be a coincidence, Harry," she muttered, chewing on her thumbnail. 

"I don't know," he muttered, staring hard into space as though it held the answer. He wasn't seeing the common room, he was seeing brown eyes with long lashes and pure fear in their gaze. Why fear?

~

"Camouflage Concoctions today, class—Farad, five points from Ravenclaw—well, what are you lot staring at me for? Get to work!"

Jordan stared blankly at the book in front of her, then the caldron, then at the pile of ingredients next to the cauldron. She had never made a potion in all of her seventeen years, much less a rather complicated potion that can easily go very, very wrong.

"Marvolo, what's wrong? These do need to simmer, you know! Start cutting those chameleon intestines!"

Jordan glared at Snape, then glance at the ingredients. Which ones of these piles of rubbish were chameleon intestines? She skeptically picked up a pile of what looked like brown and red spaghetti and began chopping. Were they supposed to wriggle like that? After about ten minutes the squirming spaghetti was down to one-inch strands, and Jordan was out of patience. She threw them in.

Glancing at the book, she began rummaging through her ingredients for cord grass. It said three long shoots. She had two long stems and about fifteen short ones. She figured it wouldn't matter if she had a bunch of short stems instead of three long ones so long as they equaled the same length. In they went. Next was 'Stir thirteen times counterclockwise'. Counterclockwise? 

Oh well, she would come back to that later. Now she had to 'Toss in five pinches of red soil'. Jordan grabbed a red powder and tossed it in. It didn't occur to her that something might be wrong with her potion until her caldron began to melt. She watched in horror as her caldron slowly collapsed, releasing the putrid green liquid onto the table and onto the floor. She stared in horror as it puddled on the floor and began to eat the wooden legs of her stool.

Snape came over at that moment, saw the mess, and threw his hands in the air in annoyance—then saw that the potion was eating his robes. He performed a small dance of pain, shaking drops everywhere. At this moment, Jordan's stool collapsed, sending her sprawling.

__

"What—the—??" Snape roared. He waved his wand, but nothing happened. This only seemed to double his rage as he tried to get away from the potion, which was eating the table. "What did you do, Marvolo?"

Jordan was shaking her sleeve to rid it of her creation, shaking droplets everywhere, and didn't hear him because at that moment a drop flew into her eyes and she was howling with pain, trying her best to scrub it out of her eye with her sleeve.

"Acid," muttered Snape, following this proclamation with a few choice words. Several people screamed as Jordan's potion began to eat through the floor stones. Jordan moaned in pain. Snape looked at her, then snapped "Hospital wing, Marvolo. You obviously aren't up to this level in Potion making yet." 

"Hell, she's not even up to second year level!" shouted someone.

Snape nodded. "Marvolo, you won't be taking classes with these poor souls again. Pack your bags and get out of here!" When Jordan didn't move, he bellowed "OUT!" Jordan, cheeks burning, eye stinging, and pride hurt, ran out of the room. 

~

Parvati almost broke her neck by racing across the Gryffindor common room in her brand new platform sandals, tripping over anything and everything it is possible to trip on, finally landing in Ron's lap after stomping on Neville. "Have you heard?" she asked in a breathless voice, sounding as though she had just found the cure to cancer. The breathlessness probably came from the fact that she had just raced halfway around Hogwarts in six-inch platforms.

Ron helped her up, sat her on the floor, and watched her hyperventilate. It was Hermione that finally asked "Heard what?"

Parvati positively quivered with anticipation. "Jordan Marvolo just got thrown out of Potions."

"That's it?" Harry blurted. 

Hermione shushed him with a look, then turned to Parvati, who was glaring at her feet in their ridiculously high platforms and muttering 'pain is gain, pain is gain' repeatedly under her breath. "Why did she get thrown out?" she asked, feigning interest.

"She—" Parvati held up her hands and began ticking off the evils Jordan had committed—"melted her caldron, dissolved her stool, dissolved the table she was working at, almost burnt her eye out by getting the potion in it, liquefied about ten shoes including Snape's, and fried the hem of Snape's robes." She brandished the six fingers at them. "Padma says that she's not allowed to work with her class anymore, she's gonna have to take classes with the sixth year Slytherins." 

Ron rolled his eyes. "Joy, another addition to our happy Potions family," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just _peachy_."

Parvati's eyes widened so dramatically that Hermione actually leaned forward in concern, worried that someone had stuck itching powder in her underwear, but Parvati sprang to her feet, squealing "Oh my god! I never thought of that! Wait until I tell Padma, Marvolo herself in our class!" she gave a shriek of delight and zoomed out of the common room, only flooring herself once in her platforms.

~

That night, Jordan tossed and turned in her bed, fighting her sheets in fitful dreams. Sweat rolled down her cheeks and she grimaced in some mental torment as she groaned softly. Her black hair, illuminated by the three gold streaks, was stuck to her forehead, her long eyelashes fluttering. She didn't know she was being watched.

A tall figure, hooded, stood next to her bed. Normally he would never have chanced going up to the girls dormitories—but this wasn't normally. It wasn't every day that Severus Snape had the past come back to haunt him. Of course, this bit of his past had every bit of meaning that the Mark on his left arm did: it tied him to Voldemort.

The last time he had seen this girl, she had been not quite four years old—and asking him why. "Why, Dui? Why must you go?" He smiled. she had insisted on calling him 'dad' for awhile, but at Voldemort's wishes 'dad' had changed to 'Dui'. Little Jordan hadn't known the difference. But, of course, Severus the Almighty Spy's game was up, and he had to flee. Jordan couldn't Apperate, and there was no time to set up a Portkey. She was left behind.

What had happened to her over the last thirteen years? He saw scars, bruises: things that had rarely marred Jordan's body while she was under his care. He had thought her dead. _You should have known better_, he thought to himself, letting the tinniest bit of pride shine down upon Jordan. She had survived. 

Jordan suddenly thrashed in her bed, pulling her arms into her body, then flinging them away; she was moaning through clenched teeth; her face streamed sweat. "No, please, I'll do anything, anything!" she choked, then began to sob. "No, please no, I'll be good, I promise!" she rolled over and tumbled out of bed. Warily Severus backed towards the door. If she woke up… no, she was fast asleep. Her face was shiny in the moonlight from her tears and sweat, her eyes still fluttered. He moved closer.

Hands grasped his robes. He backed away, but tripped as the hands pulled him closer. On the ground he tried to get away, but it was fruitless. Severus spun to see his captor and found himself staring into a pair of unfocused brown eyes, thick eyelashes stuck together with sweat. Jordan's hands knotted themselves in his robes. He held still. She was asleep, he told himself. She was asleep, asleep.

"No," she whispered, horror etched deeply on her features, "don't leave me here. You cannot leave me here. Please… please…" Severus froze, then Jordan screamed loudly, releasing his robes to clutch at her back. "_Stop, please stop—please, please—I tried, I really did!_ " He whirled and ran, slipping soundlessly past several girls who had awoken to see what the shouting was about. Jordan's tortured screams rang out behind him—"Oh, Dui, where are you? Help me, he's going to—" An agonized shriek shattered the still air.

~

Albus Dumbledore sat up straight as a poker in his bed as Severus Snape barreled into his office, face white. "Headmaster, it's Jordan—I don't know what—"

Dumbledore clambered out of bed, pulled yesterday's robes over his head, then followed Severus down the many stairways and through the wall, down the stairs, and into the green-draped room where two pale faces peered out from between their curtains. Jordan lay on the floor, curled into a fetal position, still sobbing. "What happened?" Dumbledore demanded, surveying Jordan as she lay, tears tracing paths down soaking wet cheeks. Her hands were clamped over her mouth.

"We don't know, do we?" muttered Elia. "One minute we are lying here, asleep, then we hear somebody scream as though the Devil were pulling their hair." A snort of agreement came from Aubrey as she peered over Elia, trying to see who had disturbed her regular ten hours of sleep.

The bent, silver haired man knelt by Jordan side and shook her. "Jordan? Jordan Marvolo, wake up."

The dark lashes fluttered, then parted to reveal red-rimmed brown eyes, pupils enormous in the half-light. "Wha—?" She began blandly, confusion slowly clearing from her eyes. Then she saw Snape, still with his hood up. "Dui?" she whispered softly, then the brown irises disappeared, showing only white as she fainted.

~

Parvati caught Harry before breakfast (before he was truly awake) by the arm and dragged him over to a corner. "Have you heard?" she asked breathlessly, flipping her hair excitedly from side to side, throwing the strong smell of hairspray into Harry's face.

"Not"—he coughed, then sneezed—"yet. Not yet."

Parvati bounced on the soles of her feet, looking as though Christmas had come early. "Jordan Marvolo—"

"What?" Harry asked her. "What about Jordan? Why the hell do you think I want to know every detail about the poor girl's life?" Parvati's mouth dropped, her perfectly made-up face stretching into an expression of shock and disbelief. Harry noticed that her foundation had split under one eyebrow.

"But—" she stuttered.

Harry cut her off. "Look, go tell Ron. Go tell Hermione. They may not care that you're trashing her, Parvati, but I do." He spun on his heel and stormed out of the room, leaving Parvati standing, shocked, in the middle of the room.

~

"You're what?"

"Going to see her. If I was up there, it would be nice to have some company."

"Harry, you're mental."

"Shut up, Ron."

Privately Harry agreed with Ron: he _was _mental. He just wanted to see what Parvati had been talking about (Hermione had enlightened him on Parvati's info by telling him that Jordan had been placed in the hospital wing after waking up everyone by screaming, then fainting after seeing Snape). He also agreed with Jordan: anyone who saw Snape first thing in the morning would probably faint too.

Hesitantly he knocked on the infirmary door. Madam Pomfrey opened it: a swollen eye and a puffy lip made her look even more ferocious than she usually did. "Good Lord save us all!" she exploded. "That—that—deplorable child!" she shrieked. Harry backed away, but she nearly threw him into the room by his collar, screeching "I've had enough! You watch her, I'm leaving!"

Harry glanced around the room. The only occupant was Jordan—a highly annoyed looking Jordan—who was staring at him as though he was advancing on her with an axe. "What are you doing in here?" she demanded. She looked—to say the least—horrible. Her hair was messy, her eyes were bloodshot, her nose was red, and tinny salt traces wound down her cheeks. "Why you?"

"Me?" Harry asked blankly. "I was here to see you. Thought you might like some company."

Jordan glanced at her lap. Harry Potter wanted to see her? Why? He surely had better things to do that look at her. Self-consciously she tried to smooth her hair. 

"What was Madam Pomfrey trying to do to you?" Harry blurted. _Oh, great move, smart one. Lots of tact there_, he mentally lectured himself. 

"Why do you want to know?" Jordan asked awkwardly. What was she supposed to say? 

Harry nodded at the door. "You gave her a few nasty bruises."

"She was trying to force-feed me some potion and she wouldn't tell me what it was," muttered Jordan. _Crud. Why did I tell him? _she muttered to herself.

"Oh," said Harry. The silence stretched for a few long minutes as the odd pair sized each other up. _Think of something to say_, Harry thought frantically. "Uh—" he said, then the image of Parvati came to him. "I heard from a rather unreliable source that you're going to take Potions with the sixth years. Is it true?"

Jordan scowled. "Yeah. Stupid Snape got his shoes melted."

Harry smiled. "At least it accomplished something useful."

He wasn't sure, but it looked as though her expression had softened. "Yeah," she muttered again. "It was a real good acid. Dissolved quite a lot of the Potions classroom."

"You should sell that stuff," Harry told her, smiling just a little bit, "though I don't know what you would package it in."

Jordan looked up. Her retort was forgotten as their eyes locked. Star-bright green met murky brown. Jordan wondered if he knew how beautiful his eyes were. Emerald stars, framed by dark lashes that nearly matched the pupil in color, set under solemn brows, but with laugh lines barely visible at the corners. 

Harry, meanwhile, was seeing something he had never seen before in Jordan's chestnut eyes. Humor. She was laughing inside, and not _at _him—_with _him. It made a huge difference in her usually sullen, somber face. Laugh lines crinkled, the corners of her mouth quirked. This was a different Jordan. A rather pretty Jordan.

"Well," Harry said awkwardly, "I gotta go. Potions."

"Oh…" Jordan's eyes glanced downward. Why the heck did she feel sad? "Bye then."

"Yeah. See you tomorrow."

Jordan struggled for a moment, then allowed herself to wish he would come back. He was the enemy, but he was nice. And handsome. She sighed, a long sigh filled with things she had driven out of her life ever since they had dared enter. It felt wonderful.

"Hello, Jordan."

Jordan contracted her body into a ball, trembling. It was him. What had she done? She was careful, all she had been doing was talking to Harry…oh dear God, that was it. She was—fraternizing with the enemy. He was going to kill her. 

"I'm very pleased with you."

There was a thud as Jordan fell off her bed, half out of shock, half out of being stiff. "Wha—" she asked, peering over the bed like it was a barricade. "You are serious, aren't you?"

"Of course, of course," he said. He looked ecstatic, now that Jordan had a clear view of him. "You are crossing the enemy lines! Making friends! Gaining trust!" He looked as happy as a schoolboy. "You, Jordan, are one of the best spies I've seen!"

Jordan backed away, until she hit a wall. What the hell was going on? "Okay," she said, voice shaking, "Who are you, and where is the Master?" He approached her, and she scrabbled against the wall with the desperation of a doomed animal.

He drew her to her feet and shook her hand. "I see that getting rid of Dumbledore isn't enough, you must take Potter too! So young, and so clever!"

Completely freaked out, Jordan tugged her hand away. "I'm not a spy, I'm your"—she struggled for the right word—"your assassin! I'm not a spy."

"Of course, my dear," the pale man said. Her brown eyes widened to the size of puddles, and she ran to the door, jerked it open, and slammed it behind her. What was going on?

Of course. He must be—drunk, that was it, really stone drunk. Why else would he..? No. Don't think about how he's acting. The Master was the one thing in her life that had never changed. Why now, when her life was upside down?


	3. The Results: Done to Burning

****

The Jordan Quartet: Book 1

The Assassin, Part 3

Harry walked leisurely to Potions. He didn't really care if he was late—what would Snape do, poison him? Possible, but probably against the rules. Harry knew perfectly well that Snape would love nothing more than to slip a little bit of the Draught of Living Death into his evening pumpkin juice.

Sincerely hoping Parvati hadn't had time to take revenge on him by spreading rumors, he opened the door. A hush fell as every head swiveled towards Harry, some wearing nasty smiles, others looks of curiosity. Snape's however, was a look of unmistakable anger.

"_So, _Potter, just thought you'd drop in, eh? Finally done up there?" Snape's glittering black eyes haled him from across the room.

Harry stood, frozen. What was he talking about? 

"Don't look so surprised. We all know what you were doing up there, Potter," sneered Pansy Parkinson, a look of glee upon her dog-like features.

"I wasn't doing anything—" he protested, but was cut off as Draco Malfoy stood up, barely ten feet away from him. 

"Aw, come on, Potter, we all know you went up there to screw that Marvolo girl," he drawled, smiling wickedly. "Nobody in our year good enough for you, Famous Harry Potter? First Chang, now Marvolo."

Harry's emerald eyes spat sparks as he glared at Draco. He clenched and unclenched his fists, imagining that each one held the sneering face that mocked him. Ten feet away.

"Was it good, Potter?" Malfoy asked in a stage whisper, making sure that everyone in the dungeon caught every word. "Compared to you're—past experiences?"

Ten feet took three steps to cover, and three steps later Harry and Draco were rolling about on the dungeon floor. Harry had Draco by the neck, Draco had Harry by the hair, and they both tumbled around the dungeon in a spitting, cursing, tangle. It took Snape five minute to pry them apart, and by this time Harry had a black eye and a swelling lip, and Draco was nursing his temple and neck, which Harry had wrung quite thoroughly.

"_Mister _Malfoy, Potter, can we stop this little love fest?" Harry chanced one more swing at Malfoy, but Snape caught his hand and squeezed it tightly. "I _said_—" 

Just then Draco's misplaced punch caught Snape in the side of the head, slamming his lower jaw into his tongue. He roared in pain, then flicked his wand at each of them in turn and muttered "_Enclose them who fights_". A red line circled around Harry's feet, growing into a glowing cylinder that flared as it sealed him off, then vanished. Hesitantly, he reached out, but received a nasty sting as his palm hit the invisible barricade.

"Class, I will be back," Snape snapped, poking his wand at them. "Hospital wing, then the Headmaster's office. Well, what're you gawking at me for? March!"

~

Jordan ran into them about half-way to the hospital wing, took one look at Snape, and continued walking. Snape caught her by the arm, saying "Marvolo, we have a few things to discuss."

"What?" Jordan asked grumpily, allowing herself to be dragged. 

"Many things," Snape muttered, coming to the hospital wing door. Dumbledore looked up from the discussion he was having with the very irate Madam Pomfrey.

"Oh, hello Severus," he said brightly. "Having some problems?"

"Only a few," Snape said tersely, gripping Jordan's arm a little harder. "Potter and Draco will tell you all about their little grapple—won't you boys?" He smiled sweetly, kneed Harry in the back and shoved Draco towards the office in one fluid movement without letting go of his hold on Jordan's arm. 

"Coordination is obviously your specialty," Jordan said, trying to wrench her arm away. "Will you let go of me?"

"Of course not, Marvolo. Do I look stupid?" Jordan opened her mouth to answer, but he cut her off. "You shouldn't answer that."

He walked her down a few flights of stairs, then he came to a painting of a fairy, who was blowing her nose and wiping tears off her fat face. She was fat and particularly ugly, with a set of ridiculously small wings on her broad back. "Let me in, you cow," Snape ordered. Jordan thought this was a rather nasty thing to say to someone who is crying, but to her shock, the fairy grinned happily and slid upward to reveal a door, which Snape kicked open. He stomped down a flight of stairs, dragging Jordan as easily as if she weighed nothing, which may or may not have been odd (though she was five foot ten inches tall, she only weighed about one hundred and twenty pounds).

After sitting her roughly in a chair, he conjured another, slammed it down across from her, and then sat down. He leaned forward, so that his nose was an inch away from hers. 

"Jordan, what happened in that hospital wing?"

Jordan had been expecting something different and was taken aback. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Nothing!" Jordan said. 

"I've heard rumors you two were having sex up there."

Jordan looked at him, then began to laugh. The very idea of her and Harry, well, _doing _stuff, was so ridiculous it was funny. "Of course not!"

Snape didn't look convinced. "Rumor says otherwise."

"Rumor isn't always true," she said, smiling sweetly. "I've heard rumors you were seen wearing a dress in the halls in the dead of night," she lied confidently. It wasn't as though Snape could prove otherwise.

To her great surprise, he looked stung. "That isn't true."

Jordan pasted a skeptical look on her face. "Rumor says otherwise."

Snape rolled his eyes, the shook his head. "You're right. I would prefer, however, if you were truthful."

"Of course you would," Jordan said sweetly, "but what you prefer is of no concern to me."

The man across from her made a face at Jordan. "You are infuriating, Jordan Marvolo."

"Thank you, Professor." Jordan rose and made to leave the room.

Snape caught her by the arm and pulled her back down. "A few more questions, Jordan."

"Whatever."

He bit his lip, as though to bite back a retort. "First question: who do you live with now?"

Jordan cast about for an answer, quickly searching her brain. "My—Uncle Tom." She prayed that he wouldn't ask anything else along those lines. What would he ask next?

"Your Uncle Tom. Is he married?" Jordan shook her head. Snape watched her face. She lied very well, but the faint note of panic in her chocolate eyes betrayed her. "Why do you live with your uncle?"

"Because my parents are dead, Professor."

"How did they die?"

Jordan suddenly found herself wondering the same thing. In all her years she couldn't remember anyone ever telling her about her real parents—she had had many caretakers throughout her life, and whenever she had asked them anything about her _real _mother and father, they changed the subject. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

She felt hurt. All this time, doing whatever the Master told her, and she had never asked for anything. He hadn't even bothered to tell her who she was. What a rip-off. "That's right," she said absent mindedly. What she really was thinking about was her long line of caretakers.

First there was a man. A tall man, who usually wore a hood. He had left when she was four. Then there was Goyle, a horribly stupid man who had been replaced by another stupid man, Crabbe, who was replaced by the Malfoys (for two days!) who were replaced by Avery, then the Lestranges, then lastly, Wormtail. 

"What?" she asked. Snape had said something, which she had missed in her intense contemplation.

"I said, who takes care of you?"

Jordan went back to her thinking. Who was her first caretaker? She remembered little about him, except that he had been dark. And he had been called away suddenly. And she had called him Dui. Realizing Snape was still waiting for an answer, she said "Wormtail."

"What?"

Her eyes grew large in shock; she clamped a hand over her mouth as though she did not trust it. Before Snape had half-risen from his seat, Jordan was gone, her feet pounding on the floor stones. He didn't mind. He had many things to think about—and many to tell the Headmaster.

~

Albus Dumbledore stared out his window, across the grounds. From this height he could almost see Hogsmeade. He was now well over a hundred years old—though how many years over one hundred he did not remember.

Why didn't he remember? Because Albus Dumbledore was now an old man, not only in body, but also in mind. The sparkle in his blue eyes wasn't as bright as it used to be; the bounce in his step had gone, traded for a cane. He was going deaf. He didn't care to be seen at social events, instead he kept to himself inside his private rooms. In fact, a small part of Albus Dumbledore was very ashamed of what he had become.

Old.

Yes, he had known he would get old, but knowing it and having it happen to him were two very different things. Albus Dumbledore knew he was old, and after he became old he would die. Of course, he didn't know when he would die. This was partly maddening and partly a relief.

For instance, if he died during the night, then what would happen to Hogwarts? Would anyone need his help? Would his death cause more deaths? And if he knew when he would die, he would try to do everything before he died, which would cause him to go stark raving mad. It was a lose-lose situation. Albus Dumbledore hated lose-lose situations. They undermined one of his oldest beliefs: you can always make something better.

There was no bettering his situation now, for Severus Snape had just rushed in, a panicked look on his face. "Headmaster Dumbledore, sir, it's about Jordan."

Dumbledore didn't look away from his panoramic view out the window. "What has that child done now?" he asked, more to himself than to Snape. "That girl…" he shook his head, smiling. "What a regular idiot."

Snape rolled his eyes. "Dumbledore, I have proof she works for Voldemort."

"Voldemort?" Dumbledore asked softly, still not turning away from the view. "I remember the man…poor soul." He clucked his tongue in sympathy.

"Listen," Snape grabbed him gently by the shoulders and turned the old man so he could see his face. "Voldemort has one of his servants planted here, perfectly positioned to attack you or the students should he give the word. It is urgent we watch her."

"Servants? Voldemort? Severus, I can take care of myself. You go teach Potions." Dumbledore pulled himself from the chair and grabbed his cane. "I can take care of myself," he repeated, then strode off.

Snape sighed and rubbed his temples, more sad than anything else. Where had Albus Dumbledore gone, and who was this fuddy-duddy old man that was here in his office?

~

Jordan slumped down at the dinner table later that day, staring at her mashed potatoes with no appetite. She was certain that at any moment, men would come in and arrest her, take her to trial, then put her to death. They'd probably torture her to death using one of the Unforgivable Curses. Ugh.

A shadow fell over the mashed potatoes just as a hush spread over the Slytherin table. She wheeled, half rising in case she needed to run. Instead, she locked eyes with Harry Potter, who smiled at her. Just at her, and no one else. She didn't smile back, but she allowed a slightly pleased look to spread over her face. "Hello."

"Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?" He glanced at the eagerly listening Slytherins and said pointedly "Alone."

What could she say? "Sure." Jordan found herself thinking that she wouldn't know herself if she met herself on the street. Who was this girl who talked so easily to an enemy, who allowed him to know she was pleased to see him? Certainly not the same Jordan who had fled from him on the train a few month ago.

She got up and followed him a short distance away from the table. "What is it?"

"Oh—yes, Jordan…I was…wondering if you might want to—take a walk after dinner. Around the grounds." Harry was staring at his feet.

Jordan opened her mouth, closed it, and felt the blood start to rise to her cheeks. Why, oh why did she have to blush now? "Um…" She stood there, thoughts racing through her head. It _would _be nice to go walking with Harry—but if the Master got the faintest inkling of an idea that she liked him, it would be bye-bye to Harry and Jordan—they'd probably both end up dead. She did not want to die. She didn't want anyone to die because of her, come to think of it.

"Uh…I'm sorry, but I have to study for a test. Ask me again later." Seeing the look on his face, she apologized again. "Sorry." It didn't help.

"Poor Potter," drawled a mocking voice from behind her. "To think, after one encounter with Marvolo, she never wants to have you again. Are you really that bad, Potter?"

Jordan spun on her heel, marched up to Draco Malfoy, leaned in close to him, and whispered "Draco Malfoy, is it? No relation to Lucius Malfoy? The Death Eater? I know him well."

Draco smirked at her. "You can't. He isn't a Death—"

"Bull shit he isn't. Tell you what, Draco Malfoy? Next time I catch you making fun of anyone—anyone at all—I tell the whole school about your dad. I have proof." And with that, she punched him in the nose, sending him flying head over heels backward. Jordan Marvolo completed this stunning act by marching smartly out of the Great Hall.

Once she was safely up in her dormitory, she pulled the curtains around her bed and began to cry. Poor Harry. The look on his face when she had said no…she snuffled and conjured up a box of tissues, blew her nose loudly, and flopped back on the bed, feeling like the biggest monster in the world. More monstrous than…than…_Voldemort _himself.

That was how Elia found her.

"Okay, spill it," she said, jumping onto the end of the bed. "Why are you crying, eh?"

Jordan glared at her. "I don't want to talk about it."

Elia glared right back, her eye-browless face contorting oddly. "You don't talk, you have bad dreams. Bad dreams mean me and Aubrey lose sleep. Tell me everything."

The dark haired girl bit her lip. "I like Harry." Saying it made it seem even stranger than it was, but at least it seemed more real to her. "And—today he asked me to go walking with him."

"A good thing, yes?"

"No!" she cried. "I said no, because—because—I just can't hurt him. If I get too close, he'll get hurt." Jordan whimpered, pulling her long legs into her chest. "But I hurt him anyway…"

Elia sighed. "Jordan, how could you hurt Harry by getting close to him?"

Jordan shook her head and snuffled into her knees. Elia drew a hand-kerchief out of thin air and handed it to her. "Jordan, Harry is one boy out of the many in this world. If he does not chase you further, he doesn't think you are worth chasing, and you should not think more of him. If he does… you're a lucky girl, Miss Marvolo."

A lucky girl? If only she knew.. Jordan thought.

"Change of subject: Are you planning on going to the Yule Ball?"

Jordan sat up straight. "What?" Panic bells were going off inside her head. Ball? Voldemort hadn't mentioned a ball.

"The Yule Ball, silly. It was a huge hit two years ago, so the school decided to continue it year after year."

"Uh…I don't really have anything to wear to a ball." Jordan mutter this quietly, hoping Elia would not make her go. The last thing she needed was to worry about was some type of social occasion.

"That's okay, I don't either. We can go shopping next trip to Hogsmeade! You have some gold, yes?" Jordan nodded dumbly. "Excellent. We'll need to get something nice for you…brown to match your eyes, maybe with some gold on it…maybe red or green…" Elia gushed on happily. Jordan let her ramble. She didn't dare protest.

~

The day of the trip to get Jordan fitted for dress robes started with disaster: Jordan clotheslining herself on the low doorway of 'Damsels in this Dress'. As Elia and Aubrey (who was as unwilling as Jordan to enter this world of pins and paisley) picked her up, the woman behind the counter took one look at Jordan's lanky body and announced "We'll need a bigger measuring tape." Everyone in the shop (twenty or so women and girls) turned to stare.

Jordan was then forced to go into the next room, strip down to her underwear, and let some woman she had never seen before in her life measure her. It was humiliating.

"Jordan Marvolo…bust: thirty-five, waist: twenty-seven, hips: twenty-nine." 

"Did you have to shout?" Jordan hissed, hearing laughter outside the room. "What are you doing?" The woman slipped the tape between Jordan's legs and pulled it up to the limits so it would reach over her shoulder. 

"Girth: sixty-seven."

Jordan squeaked in indignation. "Excuse me!" she exploded, pulling the tape measure out from in-between her legs. "I supposed you'd love it if someone tried to yank a tape measure up your butt!" The woman obviously didn't really care and placed the long strip of numbers against the floor and held it there with her foot as she pulled it to shoulder height.

"Shoulder to floor: sixty-one."

"Look, I just want robes," Jordan attempted to reason. "Can't you take my old pair and change the color?"

"No. Hip to floor, forty."

When it was done, Jordan stumbled out in her jeans and tank sweater, still yanking her robes over her head. The woman followed, shaking her head. "I can have your things ready in two hours," she said to Jordan. "Please don't ask for anything else."

"Nothing that requires that tape," Jordan muttered and stormed out, ignoring laugher following from the other patrons.

Two hours later, however, Jordan was staring at a neatly folded pair of chocolate brown robes with little gold vines trimming the neckline (which was a little bit too low for Jordan's taste) and the hem and sleeves. It looked really good on her, making her practically non-existent curves fan out and her height a little less foreboding. The brown color brought out her eyes, and the gold picked up more matching shades in her mangled hair.

She paid the woman, thanking her, then left. It was still fallish weather—crisp, with a chill to the air—despite the fact that it was early December. Elia's suggestion that they visit the Three Broomsticks was the first welcome idea of the day.

Jordan was halfway through her first butterbeer when a hand tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She didn't turn around, she already knew who it was. "Hi." She waited for Harry's voice.

"Marvolo, we need to talk." Jordan spun in her stool and tilted her head back so she could see into Ron Weasley's taffy-colored eyes. "About Harry."

"What is there to say?" Jordan did _not _like Ron, and the feeling was shared by Ron. "Leave me alone."

"No. What do you want with Harry?" The chocolate eyes blinked. Ron was serious. She'd thought this was some monstrous joke.

Jordan ran a hand through her chin-length hair, unsnagging knots. "What do I want? I just don't want him to hate me. You could ask him the same about me."

Ron frowned. "Why'd you say no?"

"I needed to study," she said shortly, praying somebody would deliver her from this dork.

"Do you like him? Truth."

"Yes," she snapped. "What is this, twenty questions?"

The red-haired boy ignored her. " I just want you to know that if you want to start going with Harry, I'm not going to like it, but I'm not going to stop you. I just want you to know he really likes you—only God knows why—and you'll be the envy of many girls if you hook up with famous Harry Potter." Jordan was at a loss for words. Ron smirked at her. "Just don't mess with his brain too much. And if you hurt him, Hermione will hunt you down." He slipped away to another table with the know-it-all girl.

Elia peered over at them, adjusting her head-scarf—maroon today—and blinked. "He is such an idiot."

Jordan rolled her eyes, but didn't say anything. Something new had just occurred to her. Voldemort probably knew about everything she did. He wasn't stupid, and any idiot could see that she cared about Harry and Elia. That meant if she displeased him they would be the first to go. Would she be able to live with herself if she knew she was the cause of their deaths?

No. Jordan Marvolo's soul might have been shut in a box long ago, but her conscience roamed free.

~

Jordan's dreams that night were full of horrible images; things she had never seen before. She saw a ruined house with four bodies in it, she saw Voldemort standing over her, and she saw the hooded man. Dui. A mystery to her. Who was he? A tall man with glittering eyes and a large nose; unfortunately, this did nothing to lift the veil of mystery.

Suddenly she found herself in the Speaking Chamber of the Underground castle, where she had lived barely a month ago. Habit took over, and she gazed above the spinning circle on the wall, standing stiffly at attention. "You called, Master?"

JORDAN. I am most displeased with you and your petty emotional life. How DARE you. I should gut you where you stand. WHY IS ALBUS DUMBLEDORE STILL ALIVE? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TRYING TO DO? I WILL SEE HIM DEAD BY CHRISTMAS OR I'LL HANG YOU WITH YOUR OWN INTESTINES!

"Yes, Master." A tiny voice in the back of her head was protesting she didn't really need to kill Dumbledore, as he was bound to drop dead any minute from old age. "Albus Dumbledore _is _a very old man, Master."

I KNOW that, you blithering idiot. I just won't wait another fifteen years for him to die. He must die now!

Jordan bowed. "I will go."

You will not leave this chamber until I'm through with you. I will be obeyed, Jordan, and not when you feel like it—when I feel like it. YOU WILL KILL ALBUS DUMBLEDORE. YOU will NOT love Harry Potter.

"No." Jordan clapped a hand over her mouth. On reflection, she realized she had been doing that a lot lately. Her mouth obviously was not going to stay silent any longer.

What?

"It was a slip, just a slip…" she whispered, her horrified stare directed at the ground; feeling the blood drain from her face, leaving it a ghostly white. An invisible hand grabbed her hair and jerked upward, pulling out a large clump. It held her there for a minute, as though contemplating her, then threw her against the back wall of the room. As she cowered, she felt something pound her head, followed by a prickling pain. When the raps stopped, she grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled it towards her face. Sure enough, many more thin golden streaks punctuated her black hair. There was also some blood from the pounding.

Christmas. You have to choose, Jordan. You or an old man. BY CHRISTMAS!

Jordan sat up in the Slytherin Dormitories, staring around at the green velvet curtains around her as though they were closing in on her like a cage. Her hand went to her scalp and encountered something sticky. Pulling her hand down, she saw her fingertips were caked with half-dried blood. She stared at it with mixed horror and curiosity, noticing for the first time how _red _it was. Red meant many things to her.

Red was the color of Voldemort's eyes. Red was blood. Red was the Gryffindor color. Harry's house. Voldemort, blood, Gryffindor, and Harry. Obviously all four would come into play in this dangerous game she was trapped in. "Absolutely not." Harry stared at his reflection with horror. His robes had a tear (too small), his hair looked like a bowling ball from his attempts to tame it, and he was having something along the lines of a panic attack. Tonight was the ball. Not in two weeks, not in one, but today. In one hour. Sixty minutes until he saw Jordan again. 

Fifty-nine.

Hermione looked at him. "You look like an idiot," she announced. "What did you do with your hair?"

"Killed it," Harry muttered. "Is there any way you could fix me?" he asked, ignoring Ron's muffled giggles with annoyance.

Hermione sighed, waved her wand at his hair, then at his robes. "Be careful," she warned, "I stretched the fabric to fit. It's really thin." Harry could have kissed her, but instead he ran to the mirror. His hair was still a mess—but not so bad as before. He was ready to see Jordan.

But there were still forty-eight minutes to go.

He sighed and slumped on a chair, thinking that being early could be just as much of a curse as being late. Ron sat down next to him. "Thinking about Marvolo?"

"Yes. And her name is Jordan."

"Sure. Okay, I talked with her when me and Hermione were at the Three Broomsticks together. She really does like you, y'know." Ron watched Harry with amusement as he jerked upright.

"She does? Really? How do—how—" Harry sputtered. Nearby, Parvati tilted an ear towards them while reapplying her mascara.

"I asked, stupid. I also told her your feelings." Ron sighed and fluttered his eyelashes ridiculously. "Ah…young love!" Harry snorted and punched Ron in the arm. What a first-class-idiot. Unseen by either of them, Parvati crept away to have a whispered conference with Lavender.

~

"Absolutely not." Jordan stared at her reflection with something between disbelief and embarrassment. "I can't possibly go anywhere like this."

She was wearing the brown gown and her hair was neatly combed and twisted up with a golden hair-clip. Elia had put shimmer eye shadow on her eyelids and lipgloss on her lips, which suddenly seemed fuller. The gold in her hair perfectly matched the embroidery on the dress; the brown made her eyes look huge. She looked (in her personal opinion) better than she'd ever looked before.

"Wow, Jordan," Aubrey murmured, "You look great."

"You don't look so bad yourself," Jordan said to her. For once, Aubrey was wide awake and looking very pretty in petal-pink robes. Nothing could be done for her uncontrollably curly brown hair except try to tie it back with ribbons, however, so she still looked like herself. 

"Oh my god!" Elia shrieked from inside the bathroom. "Jordan, Aubrey, get yourselves in here!" Jordan dashed to the door to see Elia standing in front of a mirror in her acid green robes, examining her bald scalp. "Look what that"—Elia said something that made Aubrey sigh in disbelief—"wig did to my head! It hurts!"

"You could just wear a scarf," Jordan suggested. "You could wear that green one. It would go with your dress…I think."

"Don't be an ass, it wouldn't. Maybe if I tinted it a different color…" Elia dashed around the bathroom, screaming and swearing at the top of her lungs. Aubrey and Jordan exchanged glances, then bolted for the door.

"Sometimes I wonder if she kept her brains in her hair," Aubrey muttered. "And when it fell out she went crazy."

"It fell out?" Jordan said in a puzzled sort of voice. "I thought she was born that way."

"Nah," Aubrey said, glancing back up the stairs where they could see Elia running around, still swearing. "It started falling out when she was in her second year. Everyone made fun of her for awhile, then she filled out and all the boys were too busy ogling her to care she was as bald as an egg and just as scrambled."

"Scrambled Egghead," they said together, then smiled and continued down the stairs.

~

Jordan realized something was wrong as soon as she entered the Great Hall. Nothing moved. Everyone was frozen in the acts of talking and laughing. She stole a sidelong glance at Aubrey and realized that she too had stopped, a confused look on her face.

"Jordan." The girl trembled, but held firm as the tall man approached her. "Tonight is the night before Christmas, and all through this house, not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. Do what you came here to do. The spells will deactivate in ten minutes." He vanished in a puff of acid green smoke. The people in the Hall remained frozen.

Mindlessly she ran from the room, grasping for her wand. Shit. She didn't have it. That meant she would have to run upstairs and get it, losing more time before the others unfroze. She tore down the halls, feet somehow missing all the obstacles. She pounded the wall, whispered "_Panpipes_" and dashed up the dormitory stairs. There she hit Elia.

Elia stood in front of the mirror, using a Kleenex to wipe off her brown lipstick. She was frozen, and fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Jordan stared at her, then backed away slowly, as though the slightest movement might wake her up. Oddly, Elia's large hazel eyes were fixed on Jordan, staring at her as though accusing her of what she had not yet done.

She rummaged through her bed sheets. Her wand was wrapped in an old bit of parchment, and beneath her pillow.

Five minutes! Jordan winced as his crazed scream shook the building. _HURRY!_

Jordan pulled her wand out of the sheet of parchment, then did a double take. It was a finely draw map of Hogwarts, down to ever cupboard and bed sheet. She hurriedly found the Slytherin Dormitories (occupied by two dots labeled Evelia Peterson and Annalise Prewett—who was that?) and raced down the stairs toward the small box labeled _Dumbledore's Office._

She was halfway there when she simply had to stop, a horrible stitch eating away at her lungs and stomach. Jordan clung to the wall, gasping for breath. Her beautiful hair was a mess and she had collected a number of small smudges on her lovely brown dress. A tear ran down her cheek. Even if she did manage to pull this off, what would be next? She was supposed to graduate from Hogwarts this year—but it wasn't like she could go find a job. Actually, she would probably just be sent to murder someone else.

"Is that all I ever will amount to?" she whispered to the thin air around her. "An assassin? A killing puppet to be moved by Him?" No answer from the still castle. "I just have to be something more…something…me." Me. Strange word. What did it mean to Jordan? It meant a Jordan untainted by anyone else… someone—_purer_.

And invisible hand pinched the back of her neck. Jordan's head snapped back, and she gasped out "Okay, I'm going to do it…" The hand squeezed, then let go to shove her forward. 

A stone gargoyle lay smashed on the stone floor, its small, beady stone eyes glaring up at her from within the constellation of rock fragments that scattered the hallway. A gaping hole where it had once stood revealed steps spiraling upward into eternity. 

Jordan saw her foot step onto those stairs and found herself traveling upwards faster than any elevator could take her. Along with this bodily rising came a sense of her soul being left behind, somewhere among the shattered gargoyle, watching her body obey. What was wrong?

She was thrown off the steps as they abruptly ended. Another door stood, like a faithful sentry. Jordan whispered something, then stepped aside as the door swung off it's hinges. She overdid the charm out of nerves, and the door slammed against the floor with a flat boom that sounded like the very knell of death to the frightened seventeen-year-old that stood in the empty doorway.

Her foot reached forward, then retracted. She began to shake uncontrollably, her wand slipping from her grasp to clatter to the floor. Jordan fell to her knees and began to sob without restraint, crying to the unforgiving stones and blood-red rug. "What am I doing?" she whispered. "Why? Why?" she asked the world. "Why me?" Three tears dripped to the floor, followed by the strangled sob of someone who wishes to keep her misery to herself. Hugging her knees to her chest, she rocked back and forth on the floor, praying for some miracle. 

Slowly her tears stopped. She patted her face dry with the hem of her robes, then stood. Her hand grabbed her wand, and she stepped over the door with new resolution. She would kill him, then…she would—leave. Yes, she would leave England and take up work somewhere else. In Africa, or maybe Australia. Yes, that was what she would do. Leave Jordan Marvolo behind in the room and become someone new. Someone pure.

The Headmaster was slumped at his desk, his foamy beard trailing over the desk, nearly touching the floor. He was asleep. Jordan said a silent prayer of thanksgiving. He wouldn't know it was she who betrayed his trust. She raised her wand.

All time stood still, perfectly capturing the old man, the young woman, and the dusty room. Jordan's lips were pressed so tightly together they were turning white; her eyes were huge against her porcelain skin. Dumbledore didn't stir, but his beard moved in a small draft as someone approached the door.

Snape entered the room and saw Jordan, wand upraised, facing a limp Dumbledore. He ran to the other side of the room and felt for the bony wrist. No pulse, no beat of life. Albus's face was weary and shocked in the same mold, the blue eyes glazed over in his ultimate defeat. Not Voldemort, nor Grindewald, no assassin or poisoner or spy could take the life of Albus Dumbledore. He had lost his final battle with Age.

Of course, Snape did not realize this.

"You," the man hissed. "You've killed him!"

Jordan stiffened, her large brown eyes fixed on the tall man as he advanced towards her. Her lips moved, forming a small purse. Reality had caught up with her. Albus Dumbledore was dead, and she hadn't done it. Sweet relief crept into her brain, and she relaxed.

Snape seized her arm, jolting her away from her dream-world. "How could you?" he shouted. "Why did you?" She felt nothing except coldness. Her hand swung around, connecting with the side of his head with a crack. Snape cried out and released her in shock. Jordan threw a curse at him as she ran down the moving stairs.

Gone was her relief, it was replaced by the panic of the _here _and the _now_. Feet pounded after her, she could hear movement in the castle: the spells had worn off. Down the stairs, through a passageway, up, down. Jordan's breath rasped in her chest as she ran on, searching for the main door out of the accursed castle. She was a rat in a maze, waiting for the mad scientist to pluck her away from this confusion and put her back in her cage until another run. 

Run Jordan! Flee this mess, never to return! Run!

A slap of feet behind her, then the roar of _"Stupefy_!" sent a jet of light into her back. She collapsed. Her last thought was of how cold stone was. Cold and so unforgiving, so unyielding.

Glitter's Authors note: At the end of this part, I would like to thank Megan for the ending, many of my friends for Jordan's character, and Ever After for the idea for a romance between Harry and Jordan. What else is there to be said but Thank you for reading. Now review so I know whether you like it or not.


	4. In Azkaban-Graciela

Assassin, Part Four 

A/N: Okay, okay, I know it's taken simply _ages _for me to put this up, but bear with me. This is more of the serious chapter.

Raquel's note: Graci, you are so SLOW!! Okay, I'm done now. With any luck, you'll manage to get the next part up before we all turn gray. Or white in my case. Gracias.

Jordan woke up and tried to move around. Her head was throbbing from pain. She looked around. This room reminded her strangely of the hospital wing. The clean white sheets twisted under her mass. Jordan's legs protested as she feebly tried to get up. She shook her head, only to be reminded more painfully than ever that it was not to be shaken that way. 

The purple curtain that separated Jordan from the bed next to hers moved apart as a plump woman barged her way through. Madame Pomfrey silently pulled out a deep green bottle and poured its contents into a beaker. Handing it to Jordan, she also grabbed her patient's wrist and checked her pulse. Normal, Madame thought. This one will live. Pity, that Ministry of Magic will be much less forgiving than the stone floor she fell on.

Almost exactly when she was thinking those very thoughts, a very pompous man walked through the same purple curtains, followed by Professor Snape. 

"There she is!" Snape sneered. "Albus Dumbledore's murderer!" He spat at Jordan, as though the very thought of her disgusted him. Jordan hoped it did. At the moment, she was feeling fairly lousy about what she had done herself.

"You don't, don't understand!" Jordan said, her very breath quavering. "I-I didn't want to!" She sobbed. "It wasn't my idea! He," She pointed at Snape. "He doesn't know, know the whole story!"

"Then why don't you enlighten us, dear girl. We would all like to hear your engorged version of the truth before the Dementers suck your soul from your body," Snape's hooked nose leered in front of Jordan's face, his menacing voice pulled at her anger.

Fudge, who had been seated, replied to this. "Jordan Marvolo, none of us even knew of your existence. We know nothing of where you are from, who you were raised by, nothing. Allowing you to attend Hogwarts for your seventh year, although you have demonstrated a level of potion-brewing ability far below her level-" Snape glared at her. "You have been considered an exceptional student. Though you have pushed the corners of some envelopes, as many other students have done in previous years, nothing, I repeat, NOTHING has ever come up that ever endangered the Headmaster. Dumbledore was a notorious wizard. And he was rumored to be the only person feared by You-Know-Who. The good Lord rest his soul." Fudge bowed his head, as if in prayer. "The person who killed him must be prosecuted." His stern eyes rested on Jordan. "Poppy, Severus, if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you left the, um, room. Miss Marvolo and I need to talk." Snape's protests were stillborn by Fudge's upraised hand.

Once they left, Cornelius' Fudge's eyes came to rest on Jordan once more. "Miss Marvolo, are you aware of the consequences that are given to a person acquitted of murder? If you aren't, I will gladly tell you. Three years in Azkaban, and then a Dementor's Kiss. It hardly seems worth the risk, doesn't it? Now, tell me your side."

A wind brushed against Jordan's hair, a whispered threat in her ear. The voice in her throat stuck. _Jordan,_ the voice said. _Must I remind you of the problems you face if you tell? They will prove to be far worse than the idle threats that idiot Fudge is proposing. As much as I am pleased of you that Albus Dumbledore is finally dead, it does not pardon you from anything in the future. Get it? ANYTHING you say, I will turn against you. Watch your back closely, Miss Prewett. I am watching you. Keep that overly large mouth of yours shut tight._

Jordan swallowed. Ominously, the sound of her gulping echoed against the walls. The wind in her hair was no longer there, yet Jordan still felt as though she was being watched. Miss Prewett? What did he mean by that? She was-and always had been Jordan Annalise Marvolo. It was probably just some mistake Uncle Tom had made while he was infuriated with her.

Jordan looked into the hard eyes of the Minister. Even if she told him the truth, she knew he would not believe it.

And so she said nothing.

The Dementors came to carry her off to a land of insaneness and horrors, but strangely, Jordan felt calm. It was unnerving. She wanted to think so horribly of her master, to watch him suffer in pain, as she knew that she soon would be. But, Jordan also knew that Uncle Tom heard her thoughts, and he had no reason to reward a mutinous servant.

And so she thought nothing.

There was so much nothingness around you could almost feel it in the air. Jordan's cell wall was blemished by the scratchiness and retching that had occurred before her. The air was accented with the screams of other prisoners, the howling of those who had finally reached their breaking point.

Jordan, however, was determined to remain sane. She thought over and over to herself: I'm innocent. I didn't kill Dumbledore. Someone is going to come to get me, to rescue me like a damsel in distress (certainly not her favorite one, but if the shoe fits...) 

Though it was only a few days before New Years', just days after the "killing," nearly everyone knew about it. What could she expect? They weren't that stupid. Oh sure, some of them could have used a few more brains, but gossip was their prime interest. Knowing the students at Hogwarts, the truth was so far out of proportion by now, that no one would ever have a second doubt that she was innocent. That's just the way they were...

"Miss Marvolo," an impatient voice sounded next to her cell. "You have a visitor, amazingly enough. Though I cannot find reason why anyone, especially this young man, would wish to see you." To Jordan's visitor, he said, "You have two hours. During that time, Miss Marvolo will be chained to her bed as an added precaution to you. Understood?"

Minister Fudge entered first, flanked by MacNair. MacNair roughly shoved Jordan against her bed, and before she could speak in her own defense, she was buckled tightly to the plank the Minister had the nerve to call a bed.

"Mr. Potter, you may now enter. You have exactly," Fudge glanced at his pocket watch, "One hundred nineteen minutes and three seconds. You may commence your interrogation." With that, the stuffy Minister finally left.

"Well," Harry said. He looked straight into her eyes.

"Well," Jordan replied. She couldn't break his gaze, or hers, for that matter.

Harry moved over and sat down next to Jordan. "Would you like to tell me the whole story? I'd like to hear what happened after you ditched me at the Yule Ball." A hint of a smile played upon his lips.

Jordan quickly sprang into defense mode. "Hey, that's not the whole story!" But when she realized that Harry was mildly joking, she just laughed.

"Okay, here's the story you want to hear: I needed to talk to Dumbledore about something. It was superly important, and definitely couldn't wait until Boxing Day." Jordan looked away from Harry, so that he would not inquire what the matter was. "So I went up to his office, which I had been in before, when I first came here. I knew the password, so I went down. When I reached his desk, he was sprawled out on it. Professor Dumbledore had already died, Harry, believe me, I didn't do it!" Jordan's face glistened with tears. These tears were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of pain. 

Jordan suddenly began to slam her head violently against her cell wall. It reminded Harry greatly of Dobby, when he was imprisoned by the Malfoys'.

"Jordan! Jordan! Stop, it's all right!" Harry pulled Jordan away from the wall. He heard her murmuring "Leave me alone! I did right!" before she was fell unconscious. 

Disclaimer: the regular junk.

A/N II: I'm superly sorry! Can you find it in your hearts to forgive the amount of time it took me to put this up? 


	5. Staying Sane on Hell Island

The Assassin

**Part Five- Staying Sane on Hell Island.**

Author's Note: AHHH!!! This was written by an authoress hacked up on cough medicine and tired and depressed as hell. Not bad, but keep this in mind: This is Azkaban, Hell Island.

Jordan dragged her metal handcuffs across the tightly barred window. They were a 'precaution', for after all, she was 'a danger to herself'. She gazed at the rough scratches of a name in the rotting wood of her bed. Harry Potter, the boy who lived. She began banging the thick metal links against the bars, not minding that it sent jolts through her skinny arms, cutting deep into her white flesh.

_Tank! Tank! Tank! _

"In the prison of heaven, that's how the angels make music," she said aloud to the blank walls. "But their bars make sweeter notes than mine." Jordan sighed, her whole body drooping until she tumbled off the bed onto the cold stone floor. "Cold, and so unforgiving," she quoted herself mindlessly. Keeping your thoughts to yourself here wasn't a real matter—the prisoners would forget, the Dementors didn't care. It was almost a release for Jordan, no longer having to be silent about anything.

She laughed aloud. "Silent! I don't have to be! I can scream as loud as I want, and nobody will punish me for it." Proving her point, she shrieked as loud as she could, her voice skidding up to the highest peak her vocal cords could achieve, holding it, and drawing out the end in a long, jagged scream that lowered ever so delicately into a barely audible moan. Jordan then laughed again, almost hysterically, her voice crackling from the strain.

Her Azkaban scream, she thought. "A tortured scream, like that of a soul who knows that only hellfire awaits him from this holocaust of the same hungry flames," she whispered in a sing song voice, enjoying the soft echo of her morbid words.

"That's quite poetic, Jordan."

Jordan rolled her head on her neck to look at the door. "Go away, dreams. It isn't time, because I'm not sleeping. I'll never sleep again," she threatened the doorway. "Never. You won't get me if I stay awake, ha! Because dreams only happen in sleep, and I'm never going to sleep again!" she began to laugh, then to moan, rolling over to curl up on the stone floor with her back to the door. The scars on it stood out, rigid and blue with chill.

"Jordan. I'm not a dream. Please come to the door."

Jordan suddenly rolled over and stood up, her black hair over her face. "That what you always say!" she shrieked. "Always!" she pointed a finger at the door, slowly backing away, then rushed at the door. She stopped at the grilled opening, brown eyes mad in her pale face. "What do you want from me now?" She ran her spider-like fingers over the bars, clacking her bony knuckles against the metal. "The music of Azkaban. Isn't it nice?"

The click of a key in the door startled Jordan back into an almost sane mind. "Don't do that! I'm dangerous!"

"I could take you if I wanted. Who say's you're dangerous?" The low male voice was familiar.

Jordan backed away, recognizing the eyes and voice. She crumpled to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably but not crying—she was out of tears, out of water. She clawed at the stone, seeking a refuge, wishing she could just go back to peaceful insanity, knowing that once out it was so hard to get back in.

A soft hand cupped her rough, dirty chin, drawing it up towards a face ruddy from the sun, red from the brisk sea wind, and covered in a kindness and pity that made her heart scream. How nice it would have been if she had been just an ordinary girl and he an ordinary boy, and they could have been happy. Been able to be together.

But no. Jordan was half-crazy in Azkaban and Harry Potter was the boy who lived. No ordinary life could await them in this case.

"They want me to make sure you won't hurt me," Harry said. "So the door stays open, but you must sit on the bed. No Dementors. Just you and me and a deaf guard." Jordan just stared at him, not comprehending quite what he wanted from her.

"They forbid you to come back…" she said quietly. "I heard them arguing. They said that you were upsetting me."

Harry lifted her onto the bed. "Do they feed you at all here? And in my personal opinion you're doing a bang-up job of hurting yourself."

Jordan fiddled with her handcuffs. They had been so tight when they'd been place on her arms, but now they jangled loosely. "It's hard to stay sane in here, Harry."

"So I've seen. A moment ago you were as mad as they come, but now you're almost normal."

Jordan shivered. Almost normal. Would she ever be normal again? "Is this just a social call? Or is there news of what's going to happen to me?" He glanced away, but she reached for him, wanting him to look her in the eyes.

_Zzzzzzwack!_

A charge of energy leaped out of nowhere and bit her. Jordan glanced at the doorway, where a deaf guard stood, holding his wand out. Harry shook with rage, clenching his fists. "I would curse him, but then I couldn't talk to you," he said truthfully, meeting her eyes. Jordan wanted to reach out to him again, to touch his face and marvel at his inky black hair, trace the laugh lines around his green eyes—but no, she couldn't.

"What's happening, Harry?" Jordan choked. "When are they going to kill me?" she had never wanted to cry so much in her life, but in the void tears would have filled there was only a dry, itching emptiness that tortured her soul and made things so amazingly clear. "When am I going to die?" she sobbed dryly.

Harry tried to hug her, but the guard cleared his throat and shook his head. "Blast this—I'm not even allowed to touch you!" he exploded. "And you won't die if we can win the trial." Jordan gave him a questioning look. "A trial. To prove who actually killed Albus Dumbledore."

"It wasn't me!" she replied sullenly. "They don't believe me though," she said dreamily, staring into space. "All they do is laugh. Laugh and laugh."

"Snap out of it," he said, shaking her. "We reminded Fudge that everyone reserves the right to a trial, whether they be accused or condemned."

Jordan shook her head. "They're just going to kill me," she said softly. "All I want is to die quickly and with at least a vestige of honor."

Harry stomped his feet, drawing her red-rimmed brown eyes to his clear green. "Can you be any more helpful?" he demanded sarcastically. "All you seem to want to do is just sit there and choose your death. Well, Jordan Marvolo? Do you want to die?"

"It seems rather unavoidable to me at the moment!" Jordan snapped back. "Have you ever been in this position, knowing that everyday a group of people are meeting discussing exactly how and when I shall die? Planning my death?"

"What if I have? What do you think I've spent my past two years thinking about? You and Voldemort and all the Death Eaters—planning my untimely demise, if you will!"

"That isn't fair!" she shouted, banging her wrists in their heavy metal cuffs against the rotting wooden bed. "I was never involved in anything about your death!" Which was actually quite true. Her only purpose at Hogwarts had been to kill Albus Dumbledore.

"How am I supposed to know that? For all I know you didn't kill Dumbledore, you were just trying to kill me. Is that why you wanted to see me at the Yule Ball?" he shouted back. That was unfair, and they both knew it.

"I though you believed me!" Jordan cried. "I'm telling you the truth, I'll swear it on my own grave!"

Harry sighed and placed his head in his hands. "I know you are. I'm sorry, I do believe you, it's just that this is really hard to do. You've no idea of the unwillingness of _anyone _to believe that you're not guilty. I know you aren't, because you told me so and I believe you. But nobody else would believe you, because nobody witnessed the crime."

_Nobody witnessed the crime…_Jordan thought to herself. There was something important about that phrase, something she needed to remember. _Nobody witnesses the crime…_ "Nobody witnessed the crime…"she said softly, in what she thought of as her madwoman voice—soft and singing, quietly crazy. "Nobody. No one at all? Then who caught me?"

Harry's head went up. "Someone caught you?"

"Of course, silly. How else would I have ended up here?" she said, knocking her wrist cuff on the bars. _Tank! Tank! Tank! _She giggled, feeling white clouds of mist envelope her mind. It was so nice not to think!

He slapped her. Not hard, but it was enough for anger to clear the insanity out from between Jordan's ears. "If I ever hear that noise again, I will slap you again. Who caught you?" When she didn't answer right away, he drew back, looking at the guard at the door. His profile startled her.

"My first guardian. At your school. I've forgotten his name!" she cried, pulling up her legs and curling into a tight ball of bones, rocking back and forth. "I used to call him Daddy, but HE didn't want it to be so. He said that if I called him Daddy we'd become too close, and I'd value him over 'My Master'," she said sarcastically. "So I called him Dui, but he had to leave when I was four. I don't think he ever told me why. Dui left HIS service a long time ago."

"Snape?" Harry asked incredulously. "Professor Snape?"

Jordan sat up straight. "Severus Snape. Dui. A tall man, with a hooked nose."

"Yea, that sounds like him, but why was he taking care of you?" Harry obviously thought this man the scum of the earth, Jordan thought to herself.

"Maybe because he's a little bit more humane than you think he was, Harry Potter," Jordan said quietly. "Maybe he knew that he could make a difference in my life, just like you."

A silence fell, broken only by the harsh and ragged breathing of the woman in the cell next to Jordan's. She was moaning softly, banging her wrist cuffs on the floor in a broken rhythm.

_Tank…tank…tank_

Jordan closed her eyes, seeing herself as if from the outside. A tall, skeletally thin girl, with dark hair long from almost a year without a trim. Gold streaks fell down like sun beams in the soot-black of her hair. Long black eyelashes fanned out on pale cheeks devoid of any blush of life, and lips thin from hunger were pressed tight in thought. The ragged, wash-out black robes that all Azkaban inmates wore hung loose on her frame, and her emaciated arms clenched across her chest. Not a pretty girl.

She opened her eyes again, to see Harry. Such a handsome young man, with summer freckles and spicy green eyes. Black hair, glossy and well-cut. Muscular arms. But so stubborn. Jordan sighed, her breath making a cloud on the still air. 

"Just talk to him, Harry. Tell him to visit me. You should visit me. I need to stay sane if we're going to think up a good argument for my trial," she tried to smile, her lips stretching painfully into the now unfamiliar position.

Harry, regardless of the guard, hugged her tightly. "I'll come back. Often. And I'll talk to Snape. I'll try, anyway. He hates me." He turned to go as the guard cleared his throat noisily.

"I don't think he hates you, Harry. Maybe you remind him of someone."

Harry looked back. "Who?" he asked sarcastically. "My father?"

Jordan smiled a little bitterly. "Maybe of me. Before I screwed up." She waved her hand around the cell. "Or maybe of him. Before he screwed up."

She watched him leave, dragging her fingers around in the dust of the floor. Harry's foot print were there, pointing away from her. Jordan crawled over to the other side or the tracks. That was better. She played with her hair, falling asleep slowly, awaiting the nightmares of Azkaban.


	6. You Remind Me

**Assassin**

**Chapter 6: You Remind Me**

**By Raquel**

_I can't seem to find myself again/My walls are closing in_

_- Linkin Park****_

Harry stalked out of Azkaban, his head reeling with conflicting interests. Jordan, who wanted him to talk to Snape, and Snape, who obviously didn't want to talk to Harry, and Harry, who didn't want to talk to Snape but would have liked to do what Jordan wished. But he didn't know if Jordan had been in her right mind when he'd been talking to her. She been so close to insanity it made his heart ache. To think that the real Jordan, the one he liked so much, was being sucked down the Azkaban drain, made him eager to do anything she'd want him to do.

Well, almost anything, he thought as he stood outside the door to Snape's office. All he had to do was knock, but that simple process seemed monumentally hard. It was if there was a force field in between Harry and the door, stopping him from hitting it. Harry didn't really want fifty points from Gryffindor or whatever Snape thought up, especially if he woke the Slytherin-head up.

_"I don't think he hates you, Harry. Maybe you remind him of me. Before I screwed up. Or maybe of him. Before he screwed up."_ Jordan's brown eyes, long lashes fanning out from the dark pupil at the center, implored him. Maybe Snape liked her at one point in his life, though Harry found it hard to picture. Maybe, if he tried, he could talk to Snape for maybe five minutes. He had to try.

With an effort, he raised his hand to knock on the door.

"What do you want?" Snape asked, opening the door and dodging Harry's hand.

"Er…" Harry muttered. He felt like a bug, small and insignificant. "I've just been to see Jordan."

"So?" Snape said bitterly, trying to close the door. "Why should you bother me because of her?"

Harry put his foot in the door, preventing it from closing. "Maybe because she wanted me to. I wouldn't be doing this if she hadn't asked me to."

"Look, you saw me. What do you want to say? And can you say it so that I can go back to my work?" Snape glared at Harry, disdain and boredom liberally salted in his words.

"She's not doing well, if you care at all," Harry said angrily. "She seems to think you'd care enough to see her."

Snape's black eyes narrowed. "Did she?" He asked it cautiously, with as neutral a voice that Harry'd ever heard from Snape.

"Did she what?" Harry answered, completely stumped by the importance of the question.

"Kill Dumbledore, you foolish boy. The topic is in great debate at the Ministry of Magic. Minister Fudge is all for the worst death available, in the most public place possible." Snape cleared his throat rapidly. "I have been asked to witness for the prosecution. My answer is pending." He cleared his throat again and blinked several times, nearly losing control of his famous emotionless exterior.

Harry nodded. The silence lay thick on the air; it was hard to breathe. Finally the boy shifted. "Jordan really wants to see you."

"Is that all, Potter?" Snape asked coldly, beginning to retreat into his office once more.

"She still calls you Dui."

At this Snape gulped and ducked behind the door. "I'll think on it, Potter, but I still have work to do before it's a possibility. Go away." He slammed the door in Harry's face.

Harry smiled a little. He had a feeling that Jordan would be getting another visitor before long. While walking away, a thought struck him. _Why, that was nearly a civil conversation between Severus Snape and the 'Famous Harry Potter, out new—celebrity'._ Odd things were possible in this strange world.

****

"Hey you! Guard man person?"

Sam Cooler, one of the few humans who populated Azkaban of their own free will, drew a little closer to the prisoner behind the bars of Cell 89. It was a female, tall and very thin, with black hair that hung in her eyes.

"What's today?"

Sam checked his watch. "Christmas eve. The twenty-fourth of December, in the year 1996."

"Hello. My name's Jordan."

"Miss Jordan Marvolo aged seventeen, soon to be eighteen on the second of February. On trial for the murder of Albus Dumbledore, may he rest in peace, death penalty expected, prisoner number 19960089."

"How do you know all that about me?"

"Standard information."

"Do you know anything else?"

"You used to work for You-Know-Who."

Jordan laughed. "You know everything about me, and yet you know nothing at all. Merry Christmas." She walked back to her pallet in the back of the room, still talking. "It's not a very good Christmas present to find out that the lowliest guard of Azkaban believes I still work for Voldemort and that I killed Albus Dumbledore. Minister Fudge surely thinks I did. I'm the world's biggest scapegoat."

Sam snorted. "Now, I've heard that dirge before."

There was a rustle of straw. "Where?"

"From every lass and lackey that's ever graced the cells of Azkaban. You'll need a better defense than that if you want any chance at getting out with your life."

"The only witness I have is an ex-Death Eater widely loathed by all. Keep talking, Sam. My mind clears already."

"Who do you mean?"

"Severus Snape."

"Oh, him. Spent his share of time here. He was a decent man. Full of nightmares, and one of the best influential speakers I've ever seen pass through here. Could have been a lawyer if he'd not gone wrong somewhere along the line." Sam clucked his teeth and checked his watch. Ten minutes until Christmas.

Jordan was silent. "Isn't your name Sam?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Could you dispatch a letter for me?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

Just then, a Dementor glided down the hallway, sending its wave of cold before it. Jordan retreated into her cell, slowly lowering herself into an emotionless state, praying that the Dementor wouldn't linger. She sat in her corner, rocking back and forth, one finger tracing the round form of her eating bowl. Around and around it went, with no changes of direction or sudden surprises. Why couldn't life be like that?

Slowly, with great effort, Jordan filled her mind with a white fog devoid of any emotion—her only shield against the sucking powers of the demons. 

It was many hours before she could pull herself back together. That was the danger of the white fog—the more she went into it, the harder it became to get out. Jordan took the food bowl and hit herself in the head with it. "Ouch!" she cried, her mind falling together like a vast puzzle suddenly completed. "Not completed, but almost. One piece is missing," she said aloud. She felt her forehead and winced. Hitting herself with a steel bowl might be a bad idea if the Dementors continued their bi-hourly schedule. She'd never be able to explain the bruises.

"You know, prisoners usually don't come back." Sam was outside, talking amiably to someone who was a little less comfortable with his or her settings.

"I've come to see a very close friend."

"How close?"

"Close like a daughter, you sick fool."

Jordan ran to the grate. "Dui?"

Snape pushed past Sam to stand closer to the door. "Still sane?"

"Barely so. I'm not like some people, Dui. I won't last much longer in here." She poked her fingers through the bars, her emaciated state allowing her to nearly get one whole arm through. "Is it really you?" she asked, plaintively; as innocent as she'd been fourteen years ago. Snape grasped her hand. It was cold and hard, the bones poking through her fingertips, her fingernails cracked to the wick and bitten off in nervous fits.

"It is you," she marveled softly to herself, running her bony hands over his, tracing the pattern of veins on the back of his hand. "I waited a long time, but whenever I heard your voice, I went to the door and I could never quite reach you." She shook her head. "You're here now, and I can be sane for five more minutes. I'm glad to see you again."

Snape paused, the silent anguish in his eyes speaking volumes. "I messed up, Jordan. I can try to fix that, if you're willing to try to stay sane."

"Deal. Ask Sam to let you in."


	7. The Wizengamot

**Assassin**

**Chapter 7: The Wizengamot**

**By Raquel**  
  
Jordan couldn't breath, couldn't think, couldn't move. Her whole being was consumed with the icy white fog she'd lived in for more than a month, and it filled her lungs, her brain, and her bones. The Dementor stood over her, face hidden by folds of blackness that seemed darker against the white inside her head. It had fed upon her soul, picked over her emotions until there was nothing left.  
  
Nothing.  
  
She was so wasted; so very thin and so rotted emotionally that she couldn't even feel the frigid fingers of fear that were clawing at her throat. Jordan watched blankly at the hooded head bent down to hers, as though it were going to whisper in her ear or brush a lover's lips against her own colorless ones. Somewhere in the void that her soul stretched across, like the filaments of a spider's web, a voice began to murmur, echoing in the hollowness.  
  
"I didn't do nothing wrong I just did what I was told I was good I did like they said I didn't do nothing wrong I was good I was a good girl sir."  
  
The voice hesitated as the Dementor's breath touched her face, whispering across her forehead. The folds of black cloth it wore had a curious smell, sweet and foul in one, the scent of something that has died long ago. The Dementor was pulpy inside its robes, as decomposed as month-old meat. It put one of its soft, rotten hands in her hair and pulled her head backwards so that her neck was stretched and she was looking towards the heavens.  
  
She saw a star fall.  
  
"I was good I just did what I was told I didn't do nothing wrong I was a good girl...I was a...a..."  
  
The voice quivered and then began again, slightly stronger.  
  
"I didn't do nothing wrong! I was told to, but I disobeyed, and that was right! I was told...but I didn't...do...it."  
  
The Dementor's rotten, lipless mouth closed on hers.  
  
Jordan screamed and sat up, her own hands caught in her hair and tears wet on her face. She felt her mouth, ran her hands over her bony ribcages as though she might check to see if her soul was still there. It was too much, too much to have these dreams every time she closed her eyes. Satisfied that it had been a nightmare, she relaxed against her slab of a bed and wiped her tears with her Azkaban robes.  
  
The dreams had gotten worse lately, as her birthday approached. Soon the day would come when she was eighteen, and when that day came she would be put to trial as an adult. When that day came, she would most certainly be put to death.  
  
Dui had come. Jordan couldn't remember when: Azkaban had eroded her sense of time.  
  
He had spoken quickly and without much feeling, but she knew he was upset. She remembered the shudder in his voice as he told her what her fate was to be if the courts found her guilty, remembered the fall of his hair as he tried to hide from her in plain sight. Her mind presented her with the image of a hand clutching a forearm in a grip that looked painful as he told her about her choices once she'd been found guilty.  
  
It was left up to her, in the end. She could choose life and the Dementors and their rotten kisses. Or she could choose the headsman and merciful death.  
  
Admittedly Jordan preferred the latter. She had no wish to lose her soul inside the pulpy mouth of a Dementor for she had already seen it happen in countless dreams. It may have been the weariness of Azkaban speaking, but she thought a headsman sounded fantastic: a nice change after the monotony of Azkaban.  
  
But was it right?  
  
She wrapped her arm-bones around her leg-bones and hunched over her ribs until she was nothing more than a ball of skin and sinew and bleach-white bones. "I did not do it," she whispered. "I shouldn't be here for what I didn't do."  
  
The problem was that Jordan was having more and more trouble remembering what she'd been charged with. The white fog that had once protected her from the Dementors had begun to nibble away her memories and her sane mind. She was left with an undesirable choice: open her mind to the horrors of her past that Dementors drove to the surface or let herself go mad, lost in icy white fog forever. One of her emaciated fingers found its way to her mouth, the knuckles huge compared to the bones. With palpable concentration she gnawed on her fingernail, summoning up the grit for her decision.  
  
A Dementor swept by, trailing its reek of rotting flesh. It was funny how she'd not noticed their stench so much at the beginning of her imprisonment, just as she had not noticed the evil of her master before it was too late. Jordan barely felt its presence as it paused outside her cells, sucking at the air as though testing her heath. She had no more emotions left; all that she had was the cold calculation of her own death, and that was unappetizing to a creature that fed on hope and happiness and all good things.  
  
Her emaciated body wearied and she lay down again, hoping that this sleep would bring merciful death and no thoughts of the sweet stench of a Dementor's breath. Jordan tried to roll over but failed, and this effort brought with it powerful sorrow that made the Dementor outside the cell breathe more deeply. She was too exhausted to live, and the last thought in her head was that at least she would not have to look at Fudge again.  
  
The thoughts in her head were feeling ironic. Her dreams were full of her fall from all graces, the morning after she had done—whatever it was she had done.  
  
_"There she is!" Snape sneered. "Albus Dumbledore's murderer!" He spat at Jordan, as though the very thought of her disgusted him. Jordan hoped it did. At the moment, she was feeling fairly lousy about what she had done herself.  
  
"You don't, don't understand!" Jordan said, her very breath quavering. "I- I didn't want to!" She sobbed. "It wasn't my idea! He," She pointed at Snape. "He doesn't know, know the whole story!"  
  
"Then why don't you enlighten us, dear girl. We would all like to hear your engorged version of the truth before the Dementers suck your soul from your body," Snape's hooked nose leered in front of Jordan's face, his menacing voice pulled at her anger.  
  
Fudge, who had been seated, replied to this. "Jordan Marvolo, none of us even knew of your existence. We know nothing of where you are from, who you were raised by, nothing. Allowing you to attend Hogwarts for your seventh year, although you have demonstrated a level of potion-brewing ability far below her level-" Snape glared at her. "You have been considered an exceptional student. Though you have pushed the corners of some envelopes, as many other students have done in previous years, nothing, I repeat, NOTHING has ever come up that ever endangered the Headmaster. Dumbledore was a notorious wizard. And he was rumored to be the only person feared by You-Know-Who. The good Lord rest his soul." Fudge bowed his head, as if in prayer. "The person who killed him must be prosecuted." His stern eyes rested on Jordan. "Poppy, Severus, if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you left the, um, room. Miss Marvolo and I need to talk." Snape's protests were aborted by Fudge's upraised hand.  
  
Once they left, Cornelius' Fudge's eyes came to rest on Jordan once more. "Miss Marvolo, are you aware of the consequences that are given to a person acquitted of murder? If you aren't, I will gladly tell you. Three years in Azkaban, and then a Dementor's Kiss. It hardly seems worth the risk, doesn't it?"  
  
_"Get up, get up!" someone half-shouted in her ear, pushing at her bony shoulders until she gave a raspy moan. "If you aren't up you'll be late!"  
  
Jordan couldn't sit up properly by herself so the person propped her up and began jerking a comb through her knotted hair. "Late?" she asked blearily, aware that her face was crusty with tears and snot and that there was a pain in her belly from not enough food and her head ached it ached it ached.  
  
"For your trial," said a deep male voice she recognized. She lifted her eyelids with a Herculean effort and peered at the dark hair, at the sallow skin, at the eyes that understood.  
  
"Dui," she murmured in greeting. "I dreamt about you, but you were angry with me," she said in a singsong voice, shaking her head slowly. "So very, very angry, but I didn't do it sir, I swear it." The person holding her upright released their grip and Jordan slumped sideways.  
  
"Jordan? Do you remember what you're being brought to trial for?" Snape pushed her up again and held onto her shoulders so tightly that her bones creaked. "Jordan, look at me."  
  
She met his eyes and remembered. "Dumbledore," she said after a little thought. Snape nodded grimly as the woman who had come with him handed Jordan proper robes. "I didn't kill him, I swear it."  
  
"I believe you," he said, and it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard. Jordan was so pleased that she leaned forward and kissed his wrinkled forehead with her thin lips. "Get a hold on yourself," he said, but she could tell that he didn't mind.  
  
"I feel better already," she told him, "but I don't know what I ought to say."  
  
"To the court?" Snape released her shoulders and turned his back as the strange woman stood Jordan up and stripped her of her ragged robes. She made a disapproving noise.  
  
"I'm going to have a talk with the Ministry about this," she said sourly, gesturing at Jordan's swaying frame. "I can see her stomach growling." Jordan looked down, saw ribs and hips sharp enough to hang things on covered in translucent white flesh. Experimentally she rapped her knuckles against her pelvic bones and giggled at the clacking they made. The woman made an indignant noise and dropped the robes over her head.  
  
Jordan peered at them, noting that they were not black. She supposed that if she wore black she would look like a stick figure, though her arms and legs were skinny enough to be grotesque. They were brown, a rich brown, with tiny gold vines around the low neckline and sleeves. The fabric felt familiar.  
  
"Come on," said Snape as the woman scrubbed a cloth across Jordan's grubby face. Too tired to protest, she followed Snape outside her cell. Her feet were very sensitive for she was so thin that her body had devoured the fleshy pads at their bottoms. Jordan hobbled behind until Snape growled a curse and swept her into his arms. He nearly overbalanced: he had expected her to weigh more. "Jesus," he swore, "she can't be more than eighty pounds."  
  
Jordan was about to contradict him when suddenly she got even lighter.  
  
A sky exploded before her eyes, rosy pink and swirling clouds. It was indoors, and a girl—Elia—was standing next to her and telling her that Rowena Ravenclaw herself had enchanted it. There were people there that she liked, and she saw her kitten, Namir, and decent food and decent people and not a Dementor in sight.  
  
She remembered Hogwarts—remembered Harry—remembered herself. For an instant she saw herself as she had looked the night of the Yule Ball, a pretty girl with dark hair and wide brown eyes, wearing robes trimmed with tiny gold vines. Jordan looked at her knees and saw her Yule Ball robes.  
  
"Why am I wearing these?" she asked in surprise. "I'm going to a trial, not a party." The air around her was cold and salty, and though it was what had surrounded her for a whole month, it had never tasted better. Suddenly the feelings of happiness became too intense and she leaned against Snape's black robes, letting him support her as he had when she was a very small child. "It's not fair," she muttered.  
  
"Life generally isn't," Snape replied tightly. His voice echoed up through his ribs into Jordan's ear.  
  
"No, I mean that I'm going off to my execution right after I remembered what it feels like to be happy." She sighed, her eyes dry. "I suppose it's good to end life on a high note."  
  
They got into the boat that had transported her to Azkaban so many weeks ago, where the woman and Snape sat Jordan down and proceeded to feed her. She ate hungrily, enjoying the tastes and memories that came with each one. It wasn't until she'd finished that she thought of last meals on death row and felt the good food turn to lead in her stomach as they rode the waves towards Scotland.  
  
After six weeks in a fortress surrounded by inane babble and piercing screams, the pedestrian chatter of Muggle London seemed almost too bubbly and lighthearted to Jordan as she was marched down to the Ministry by Snape and the woman (who, during their trip, had revealed she was an Auror and would gladly kill Jordan for her work in Albus Dumbledore's death if she didn't fancy the headsman. Jordan kept as much distance as she could between them).  
  
They went into the Ministry through a secret entrance that was reserved for prisoners. It was normal for the prisoners and their guards to take a Portkey or some other, more secure method of travel than walking through Muggle London, but since Jordan was considered far too mad to be dangerous to anyone but herself she was taken on foot with only two guards. Snape explained that this was a good sign as they walked, because under wizard law the mad could not be executed, only imprisoned.  
  
The room she was to wait in was naked stone without any chairs, just an iron chandelier and several guarding spells that glimmered on the doors. One was locked and led to the exit. The other was waiting for her, the door to the courtroom. Snape was in there now, testifying before the Wizengamot.  
  
Jordan was shaking. She had been in worse situations than this, she supposed, but those had involved Voldemort, someone she could almost understand or at least predict. Behind that door were the people who would decide her fate, people she didn't know, and also people who only knew that she'd been in the presence of Albus Dumbledore at the moment of his death.  
  
They thought that she had done it. No one could accept that Dumbledore could have just _died_ like a normal person.  
  
During her three hours waiting in the room, she had the thought that if Dumbledore was far too great to die of old age, how could a shaky teenage girl have killed him? Then she remembered that they knew that she was nearly a Death Eater, and that Voldemort had trained her indirectly. That cinched that argument.  
  
Then she thought about Dui—Snape, she must remember to call him Snape in front of the Wizengamot—and what he was saying. He had never told her what he planned to say, though Jordan rather thought that he was going to stick up for her. It would be difficult, she thought, considering that he only saw the dead Dumbledore with Jordan and only had her word that the curse excised from her wand by the _Prior Incantato_ had been fired at him and not at Dumbledore.  
  
And Voldemort—where was he? Jordan realized that she'd not done a great job of killing anyone, having failed with Harry Potter and Dumbledore, but she thought that he would at least put in an appearance. It was in his dramatic nature, to make sure that everyone knew of Jordan's connections with him. He had said more than once that he would kill her (if the Aurors didn't get her first) if she failed, but she had, to all appearances, succeeded. Shouldn't he save her then?  
  
No. She was stupid to think that he would risk anything to get her out of this mess. Jordan was on her own.  
  
The door opened, and Jordan blinked at the light.  
  
"Go on," the Auror said, giving her a poke with her wand.  
  
Trembling from head to foot, Jordan took her first steps into the room and faced the Wizengamot.

_Author's Note: Hmm...first update in 2 years...that deserves a review, whether it be ranting, raving, or encouragement. Next chapter in the works, hope to see it edited and posted in 1-2 weeks (yes, I know, but this takes time). The reason my updates have been...shall we say far apart?...is because my co-author moved to Washington D.C. and took the plot with her. We haven't been in contact, so I've been hammering out a new one from absolutely nothing. Though ::cough:: I have been preoccupied with newer and shinier things XD...while you wait, you could read some of those on ff.net or fictionpress. _

_Note II: The large section in italics was a flashback written by my former co-author, Graciela, who may or may not still be writing...you could check and see if you've got excess time._

_Note III: Review! lol I'm so subtle..._


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